


Shirt of Nessus

by BraveKate



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: ALL ENDGAME PAIRINGS ARE AS STATED IN THE TAGS, Altered Mental States, An Okay As In She Tries Parent Maryse Lightwood, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Dynamics, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Magic-Users, Making Up, Misunderstandings, No Malicious Intent, POV Alternating, Parent-Child Relationship, SQUISHIES, Sex, Siblings, Spoilers, Trans Character, both the show and the book canons are smashed and molded together to my liking, no one gets hurt and it's all adorable, sorry jace, well jace suffers a little but he's fine no permanent damage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-13 17:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11764647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BraveKate/pseuds/BraveKate
Summary: It was a family gathering night. Grandma and Grandpa called assorted offspring to heel so their post-divorce altercations could acquire some audience. Also for face-to-face prying. Max was pretty lucky to be spared today. He got to relax, while El got to suffer. Typical. And she already had to play counterintelligence between master bedroom and guestroom for dads to color-coordinate their outfits. A hellish loop of “Go spy what your father is wearing!” and “I don’t know, what is Dad wearing?” — by the Angel! She deserved some peace, too.***One thing leads to another thing, leads to a minor disaster... and, okay, maybe a major one, as well. But Lightwood-Bane-Lewis-Herondales are a family, dammit, and they leave some place for Lilo & Stitch quotes in their hearts!





	1. El

**Author's Note:**

> **Some explicit language.** Very minimal mentions of slurs, microagressions, and assorted phobias (obviously in a negative, damning light). Overall, this is a pretty positive story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayah is Indonesian for "Father".
> 
> There's some ~~bad~~ Spanish in this chapter: "abre", "ya acabé", "buenas noches" - "open" (here - "unzip"), "all done", and "good night" IN CASE SOMEONE DOESN'T KNOW omg I'm such a polyglot.
> 
> In all seriousness, I tried my best with all of these, but... you know. It is what it is. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“Now that we have, finally, won the Clave over on that archaic, barbaric deruning and banishing custom, I hope you know, my darling petal, that you do not have to be a Shadowhunter anymore if you don’t want to,” Ayah declared serenely over a bite of honeyed pear during breakfast.

“What?” El said dumbly, caught completely off guard.

“What,” Dad echoed, tone a lot flatter.

Ayah shrugged like he hadn’t just dropped a proverbial bomb. “I’m just saying.”

“She already has all her Marks.”

“Yes, and she can continue to have them now, due to our legal efforts, while being something other than demon fodder. A landscape artist, perhaps? Or a software developer.”

He turned to El with a gentle smile and reached out to squeeze her hand.

“Uh,” she was kinda lost. “I do like programming. Those are great ideas, but it’s okay, really. I always wanted to be a Shadowhunter. It’s fine.”

“I get it, I get it. I sprung this on you out of the blue — sorry, Max-”

“No, really. This is still funny fourteen years in.”

“-so don’t rash your answer. Think it over. I just want both of you to know that you can be whatever you want to be.” He held a loaded pause. “We’ll discuss this at a later date.”

“Yes,” Dad said, and wow, talk about loaded. “We will.”

“And if you think so little of ‘demon fodder’, as you’ve put it,” he said much louder around midnight and on his way to the guest room, “then maybe you shouldn’t have married one!”

***

There was this particular part in LOTR movies her parents avoided like the plague. No one acknowledged it out loud, but every time Elrond fixed up to paint Arwen a lovely picture of eternal widowhood, Ayah declared a popcorn emergency or something equally fake, and Dad, his mumble-core up to the max, soon followed suit.

Max usually looked on, frozen eyes glued to Arwen’s floating black veil, as El herself stoically pretended nothing was happening. When scenes changed, taking Elrond’s party pooper face away, their parents returned, - perfectly timed every watch.

El was undeniably young, but not completely oblivious. Yes, she didn’t understand immortality, but she did understand her family.

They were so attuned to one another, a well-functioning comfortable unit, that El and Max mostly forgot about Ayah’s years spent without them; years long before Dad’s birth, even. They just existed, perfectly normal, until reminders crawled through. And sometimes those were fun; like Ayah pearl-clutching because “of course I can fence, Alexander, who do you think I am?!” or proclaiming his ability to pilot an aircraft with the straightest face, - skills picked up during mismatched sparkling stretch of his past.

And other times it was Elrond’s mug glooming over the movie night. Like Ayah once said while dragging Dad away from a mundie who spewed a racial slur/verb combination at them, there’ll always be something.

***

So, yeah. Dads were Not Talking now. But in a weird almost-flirty way, so El wasn’t worried yet, just irritated: Not Talking turned her into full-force Rafaela for whatever reason. She had sent close to a hundred whiny texts about it Tavvy Blackthorn’s way already. He, a dutiful guy, kept replying with increasingly long stripes of sad face emojis.

It didn’t help that Max was feeling under the weather. Only a tad bit, but Dad helicoptered as if the situation was life or death. They set up a fucking field hospital on the living room couch with blankets and pillows and mugs. Max surrounded himself with his most favorite squishies — none cute; all weird ones, shaped like savory foods — and already sent Dad to fetch more twice.

The blending brush in Ayah’s nimble fingers was dancing to create a wicked burgundy smokey eye for its wielder. He made all the appropriate slightly bored makeup faces into his rhinestoned Starscream hand mirror. But El could see right through the façade: Ayah preferred his vanity usually, where the perfect lighting was arranged. He sacrificed it now for a place on the couch, under Max’s legs. He could scoff at Dad’s dramatics all he wanted; his own worry was still evident.

“What if it’s like,” dad gritted out, “a warlock flu?”

An eyebrow was raised at him from over the Decepticon’s bedazzled helmet. “Rafaela, tell your father there’s no such thing.”

“There’s no such thing, Dad,” she said, all obedience. 

Dad knew there wasn’t; aunt Cat confirmed it for him _a lot_. Still, he asked in same exact voice every time one of their own got sick. “Rafaela, tell you father he’s not cute,” he parodied over Max’s weak cough. Brother dearest had mastered the art of milking such occasions long ago, so the two always created this unholy duo of self-igniting sulk. 

“Shadow,” Ayah demanded, and a palette was outstretched towards him by Max, who had a contouring kit in his other hand. Dad’s lips brushed his dark blue forehead: “My poor exploited child.”

It was a family gathering night. Grandma and Grandpa called assorted offspring to heel so their post-divorce altercations could acquire some audience. Also for face-to-face prying. Max was pretty lucky to be spared today. He got to relax, while El got to suffer. Typical. And she already had to play counterintelligence between master bedroom and guestroom for dads to color-coordinate their outfits. A hellish loop of “Go spy what your father is wearing!” and “I don’t know, what is dad wearing?” — by the Angel! She deserved some peace, too.

“It’s uneven,” Ayah concluded after two full minutes of assessing his blending technique. “I give up.”

The rest of them knew close to nothing about makeup, so they wisely kept their mouths shut. For example, El’s go-to look consisted of mascara plus lip gloss, some concealer sometimes, and that’s it. She carefully checked. Ayah looked as he always did — like himself. Nothing seemed uneven. But, well. One had to have a death wish to present the man with their two cents about appearance. He knew best what he was doing, if the quiet glances Dad kept throwing his way were any indication.

Then uncle Jace called El’s phone, because Dad’s was on silent again, and uncle Jace wouldn’t be caught dead calling Ayah (even though they texted non-stop and had bro-ey cryfests over each other’s muscle definition). The call went something like this:

“Alec, tell him not to do it!” The dynamic burst in aunt Clary’s voice.

“Jace, don’t do it!” Dad complied immediately without hesitation, and uncle Jace got the phone back just in time to get mortally offended: “You’re _my_ parabatai! You are supposed to be on my side! You don’t even know what she’s talking about!”

“In our joint effort to keep you alive we became telepathically linked. I know everything. Don’t even think about it! Listen to Clary. See you in a few.”

El hid the phone away in her purse. By now they were in front of the hall mirror. Ayah was gluing rhinestones under his eyebrows, presumably to mask the alleged unevenness of the shadow. Dad tried to appear like he found a shoe shine bottle engrossing and not doing what he was actually doing, namely — waiting for his husband to get ready.

They had on, respectively: a midnight blue two-piece suit with black everything; a black suit with black tie and white shirt, but a waistcoat in matching blue; white dress with blue bolero jacket. And neon green pajamas.

“Bye, guys,” Max waved, clad in the latter, voice purposefully tiny. He clutched a giant grilled cheese squishy to his chest for dear life. “Kiss Grandpa and Grandma for me!”

“I should stay,” Dad said, giving in to his overbearing instinct as expected, but the sucking pull of portal magic rudely interrupted him.

Ayah’s makeup issues made them late even with the instant transportation: when they entered the restaurant, everyone else already sipped aperitifs around the usual table. At the head of it, Grandma looked like a shamelessly successful CEO with Trueblood family heirloom, the Widow Brooch, on her lapel. The accessory glinted in the interior’s diffused light the way only an alloy of electrum and adamas could. It had a poison chamber, a removable throwing needle, and a spike that, together with the brooch’s shape, allowed for transformation into a brass knuckle at wearer’s will. El always thought it suited Maryse Trueblood incredibly well. The woman appeared somewhat unpleased by their late arrival for three whole seconds, before Grandpa joined in, and then a saccharine smile flooded her entire face out of pure spite.

“Look at you, you’re like a pretty picture!”

“Maryse,” Ayah greeted, bending to kiss aunt Izzy, while Dad went to hug his mother. Briefly. Unlike Grandpa, who was just a bit of a dick in general, Grandma had intimacy issues, and those issues had proximity issues of their own. She got along with people just fine these days, provided that there were buffers. El was one, a big one, for her and Ayah. Dad and uncle Jace — for her and aunt Izzy. Etcetera. Of course, the sum of them all made a lovely giant separator-slash-connector between Grandma and Grandpa. Because buffers are also bridges, to some extent.

Grandpa stood up to fix El’s chair for her. Grandma complimented her hair. El distantly wondered if their acceptance would be as all-encompassing if the competitive factor would be absent from it.

The restaurant was mostly mundane, a well-established Italian place, with only the owner and the administrator in possession of Sight. It got picked specifically to avoid shop talk over dinner, and the strategy worked. Aunt Izzy and Ayah habitually went into their personal world; Dad begun relying the compressed report on “how are things” to his parents, and El got sucked into the ongoing drama of aunt Clary’s pregnancy.

Biologically, the pregnancy was completely drama-free, praise Raziel, but uncle Jace and uncle Simon, steady satellites on its orbit, rubbed each other the wrong way and produced a strange kind of friction. Nothing too serious, more like… amusing. At least, for El, who witnessed it in segments. She imagined things felt rather different to aunt Clary in the constant epicenter.

“Are you eating bruschetta with… dried apricot on it?” El asked, observing in horrified fascination as uncle Jace practically demolished the food with his face. “Eating” passed for a polite synonym of what was going on.

“What? I have sympathy cravings!”

“No sympathy whatsoever is what you have,” aunt Clary grumbled. She and her parabatai looked pretty queasy over glasses of mint and ginger lemonade. Uncle Simon, the one with the actual sympathy symptoms, moaned: “I really got the short end of this soul bond stick, haven’t I?”

Uncle Jace kicked him under the table. Aunt Clary kicked them both.

“Oh, yeah. Poor you, experiencing _my_ physical discomfort.”

That went on for a while, until Dad and Grandma ran out of pre-prepared statements and started making offhand remarks about the table centerpiece. They’ve already erroneously identified the light pink flowers as hydrangeas and the white ones as peonies (it was the other way around). Danger! Danger! El sucked on her straw to make the leftover Shirley Temple do the obnoxious noise. Aunt Izzy immediately followed their emergency protocol to a T, turning and transitioning from dialog to public announcement as smooth as ever:

“So! The recital!”

Uncle Simon rearranged his expression into one of highest attention and interest. He had _not_ wanted to do the dance studio thing with her, so aunt Clary’s intense morning sickness came in handy in that aspect at least. El figured he now felt as much guilt as there was previously relief, and overcompensated a bit. 

“Our number,” Aunt Izzy gushed, eyes jumping back to Ayah for a second, “is amazing. I won’t say anything except that at one point it involves a half-translucent screen with a limelight behind it. It’s the reason you can’t bring along kids younger than thirteen. And probably Alec, too, he might spontaneously combust.”

Dad cringed; uncle Jace looked like he was mentally slapping his shoulder in support: “He’ll manage, he built up a tolerance by now.”

“Yes!” Ayah quickly added. “Plus, we have a pretty normal salsa after. Our instructor praised it to the heavens. So much passion, apparently.”

“I swear, because of the hyphen thing everyone thinks we’re married to each other. Can’t wait to see their faces when we get our bouquets and kisses off stage! Can you imagine?”

“Wow, you really planned this out, Isabelle, darling.”

“Absolutely. I already went through the waterproof drawer in my vanity. Speaking of,” she dove into her clutch just as Dad and Grandma dove as well, but into their perfect reality where all dancing was banned, instead. “So I was out and about yesterday, and I saw these tinny tiny classy eyeshadow duo pallets? I bought one for me, one for you, special little treat! That should cheer us up after that whole indie company fiasco.”

Ayah tsk-ed, accepting the sleek gold-and-black container. “The color payoff was laughable. I had to layer it over pencil, and even than it wasn’t even Sugarpill. Not to mention Saucebox.”

“El,” aunty turned to her somberly. “I didn’t know if you were into eyeshadow now or what, so I didn’t buy you any. I know you definitely wear gloss, but I couldn’t decide on the color, so I went with the holy trinity: a nude, a pink, and a plum. That way you can choose for yourself or keep them all, whichever. If you _are_ into eyeshadow now, we will go back and get that, too.”

To be honest, at first El was worried that aunt Izzy would bombard her with makeovers or advice and opinions on makeup and style, the way she did to aunt Clary. Those two clearly had some rapport established. But – a nice surprise – either because dads talked to her or on her own volition, she didn’t. No one did. They all gave El space to discover what she wanted on her own terms and in her own pace. Zero pressure. Ayah made it very clear that he was open for questions and available for assistance, as well as completely fine if El preferred to confide in someone else. Attitudes like that could create a precedent for awkward isolation, but, luckily, her family was not afraid to raise uneasy topics or make forward moves, even with the potential to err. Errors were something to apologize for and, most importantly, work through in their household.

El thanked her aunt for the thoughtful gift and assured no eyeshadow was needed. She was less into decorative makeup and more into skincare and the minimalist look. So, thanks to relatively clear face and with wider, thicker eyebrows in height of fashion, she thought she looked, overall, like a badass fashion model. Or something.

Aunt Izzy smiled a wide, bright smile that conveyed her unconditional love for El every time, like magic. And then the thing happened.

“Stop pestering the girl, Isabelle,” Grandma called out. “Instead, answer me this: when are you and Simon going to follow dearest Clarissa here and grace the Lightwood line with an heir?”

Aunty tried to laugh it off. “What are you talking about, mother, the Lightwood line has heirs aplenty!”

“Yes. That is all well and good, but I meant biology. Blood. A real Lightwood h-” At this, finally, her common sense caught up to her tongue, and she gagged herself with three whole scallops at once.

A breath of death exhaled over the table, wheezing between crisp napkins, golden-rimmed crystal, and polished silverware. The busy restaurant noises faded out around the mortified ring of faces. Nevermind crickets, a hypothetical rat chief could be heard from the kitchens. The experienced waiter read the atmosphere and elegantly changed his trajectory to as fucking far away from them as possible.

“Open mouth, insert giant clawed demon paw,” Grandpa remarked with fake cheer, making Grandma snap: “Oh, shut up, Robert! You’re just happy to gain some points in contrast as I make a fool of myse-”

Following a thud, the table jumped significantly and produced an assortment of clink-clanks. Liquids sloshed, staining the tablecloth, the centerpiece shook in its elegant bubble of a vase. To absolutely everybody’s shock, it was Dad’s fist that made it happen.

“Yeah, no,” he articulated, calm in that about-to-stab-a-demon way of his. “You,” he gestured at El and Ayah and at aunt Clary with uncle Simon, “are not listening to this. Get up. Up.”

He was furious.

“Alexander, don’t be ridiculous-”

“Calm down, son.”

Ayah, Dad dragged to his feet by a steel grip on the bicep. Ayah looked slightly lost as he buttoned his jacket back up, but quickly collected himself, making a subtle gesture for El to follow. Across from them, uncle Simon helped aunt Clary stand. Uncle Jace, teeth clenched and face pale, was trying to murder his plate with a glare. Aunty smoothed a reassuring hand across his shoulders before leaving. Well. More like, before getting escorted outside with the rest of them by Dad.

He stuffed the group into Lewis family car in heavy silence, eyes bright with emotion and avoiding everyone else’s, barked an almost-order to wait, and paced the curb for a good minute before kicking it and entering the restaurant again.

“Well. I’ve only seen him that pissed off… maybe twice,” Ayah concluded. He looked calm and speculative, his hand patting El’s in reassurance, rings cool against her skin.

El could name one other time, The Real Girl Incident. That was Grandpa’s fault; he wanted to compliment her to show support, and worded it clumsily. The phrase betrayed his thought patterns, showed the way he truly saw Rafaela at that moment. “You are so pretty, sweetheart; like a _real_ girl,” he said. 

She remembered it hurting. Like a bitch. Worse than runes and getting punched in the face. Worse than demon poison. But also… weirdly… less than she expected it would. Before starting transitioning, before even gathering her strength to come out, she pumped herself up, getting ready for all sorts of nasty things to come and happen. She suspected her immediate family would be supportive, though, and that proved right. With it, the rest became kinda less scary, but she remained on high alert. Further into the outside world, reactions could not have been predicted. So Grandpa’s response, especially considering his past conduct with El’s parents in Dad’s younger years, was, all in all, rather mild. Almost ideal – not objectively, but he met the very low bar set for him. Grandpa’s words stung, but… But the situation was painfully new and unprecedented, and he was clearly willing to put the effort in. At the time, the thought was what really counted for El. She made herself let it go and gave Grandpa the benefit of the doubt, another chance. The trust paid off: Robert proved he loved his granddaughter by educating himself and doing better since. Raised his own bar. She could forgive some things for that.

Dad, though. By the Angel, Dad was livid. Deeply buried, unresolved issues obviously came into play, and even though he didn’t make a scene where El could see or hear, she did witness him manhandling Grandpa through the door. In days following, bits and pieces leaked through walls and snippets of interrupted conversations. Gossip spread, as usual. The scale of Dad’s fury was, apparently, vast. She had too much on her plate at the time to properly react to it. Now, seeing her quiet, stable father (who commandeered silence with an open-palmed gesture rather than a shout) punching and kicking… it was very unsettling.

(Another unsettling detail found in El’s reminiscence was Ayah’s face, brows bunched together and eyes budging and rolling dramatically in turn, as he commented on the Clave’s rather sudden acceptance: “Of course they don’t care. They’ve finally realized that as long as you are able and willing to die young for them, it matters little what you’re all up to otherwise.” Dad just hummed. Huh. In retrospect, maybe their current fight wasn’t that unexpected.)

El let out a sigh against the car window, observing as the fogged up spot receded. Adults conversed quietly, but it mostly went over her head now. Her thoughts turned to what Grandma said, about “real” Lightwoods. About “biology”. The longer it rung through her head, the harder it hit. All the familial cherishing and love, all the gentle understanding and acceptance, all he statements El knew to be true and kept repeating to herself could not have prevented her from feeling like a total fake sometimes. Like she wasn’t-

Enough.

Wasn’t strong enough. Wasn’t American enough. Wasn’t “feminine” enough, Bane enough, _Lightwood_ enough.

Irrational. And yet…

Being a Lightwood still, for various reasons, brought little real respect. Cautious fear, maybe – that, El got. Along with responsibilities, prejudices, expectations. Side-eyeing. Gossiping. Constant fucking gossiping. No matter what Robert and Maryse liked to preach, the name carried very limited prestige and all the baggage. Aunt Izzy enjoyed a saying equating Lightwoods to Kennedys. El was prone to agree, but not in the way aunty meant it. Not in a sense of glamour or wealth and influence, but in a sense that everything was needlessly scandalous and enigmatic, and a mysteriously dead relative or two had been lost to struggle for power. 

El had to bare the Lightwood name’s weight every day as it cocooned and restricted her like a wet blanket. Yet it wasn’t enough for Grandma? She didn’t think of El and Max, of uncle Jace, of aunt Clary’s child, as Lightwoods?

El forgave Grandpa quickly in the past because, at that point, as far as he knew, she hadn’t been Rafaela for that long. She wouldn’t forgive Grandma that easily. One first name or the other, El had been a Lightwood for most of her life.

***

Max emerged from Ayah’s study and blinked at the tired and, thus, above-the-average ruckus they raised in the hallway upon arriving.

“You’re early,” he said, tone cautious. “What’s up?”

The apartment was dimly lit by a mumbling TV, an abandoned laptop on the sofa, and a yellow rectangle from the study’s doorway. No one bothered to turn the hallway lights on. El took off the remaining kitty heel by swinging her leg through the air. The shoe flew off, and her brother had to jump aside to evade collision.

“Wow, you almost never use my office,” Ayah remarked, walking closer to Max and feeling his forehead for temperature. “Do you require help with anything at all?”

Max was quick to shake his head: “No, I just wanted to test out some stuff I found on the Internet.”

“Careful with that. You know it can be dangerous.” Ayah frowned, fingers on Max’s blue chin, but quickly added: “I trust your judgment, of course.”

“Sure.”

Ayah’s “office” looked like a polyamorous marriage between a library, a laboratory, a magic shop, and a what redecorating cable shows called “conversation area” – mixed somewhat sporadically and poured into a large, spell-stretched room. A place of endless torture, if Max was to be believed. A warlock by birth, El’s younger brother had to learn control over his powers, because relying on Ayah bounding his magic till the end of days wasn’t an option. Since early childhood Max endured numerous lessons in the aforementioned study. Some of those ate up _hours_. Ayah tried to make the learning process as fun as possible, arranging trips and demonstrations, inviting different tutors to assist him. But magic as a scientific study, much like so many of its siblings, boiled its essence down to a bunch of dry tomes. Nothing could be done about that, and Max had little to no choice in the matter.

His apprenticeship officially ended the year prior, and Max seemed to be detoxing from so much cramming by staying far away from any experiments with spells and potions. He avoided the dreaded office like the plague. The boredom must have had truly overrun everything else this evening.

“How are you feeling,” Dad asked, still a bit robotic. He was bent over, putting his shoes away in the darkest end of the corridor. It made for a slightly menacing picture.

Max tried to read the atmosphere as his gaze jumped from face to face. “Um,” he shrugged, “a bit groggy but fine. Guys?” He continued. “Will someone please tell me what happened?”

That made Ayah heave a sigh from where he was putting ice into whiskey glasses at the bar. “Your Grandma said some unfortunate things over dinner, that’s all. Which I’m sure she already deeply regrets. Pay it no mind.”

Max looked unconvinced and, from what El gathered, his worry only worsened after such a dismissive explanation. She tried wordlessly communicating her intent to later describe the evening’s events in great detail, complete with voices and sound effects. He smiled, still somewhat unsure, just as Dad came closer to peer into his face. “Let me look at you.”

El was so-o-o ready for her dress to come off; the thing turned out to be unexpectedly itchy, especially the semi-translucent top part with the lace on its straps and above the opaque sweetheart neckline underlayer. Who knew. She mentally swore off cheaper lace altogether. Maybe the prospect of letting Ayah pay for some of her more formal stuff, like he suggested, wasn’t that bad. She should probably accept his advice on the clothes’ quality, at least, as he proved he would never push his fashion opinions on El in any other way. 

“Abre,” she demanded, turning her back and peeking over the shoulder. Ayah smiled and obediently put the ice tongs down. His hand caressed across El’s shoulders, brushing the hair aside. Aunt Cat’s potion helped it grow very quickly, and, thanks to a gentle natural curl, El never really did anything with it except for washing and combing. No pins to extract or spray to rinse out – that much less pain in the ass. Thank Raziel.

The zipper hummed as it drew a ticklish line to her lower back. “Ya acabé,” Ayah said, returning to the drinks while she spun around to face him. He stopped with a crystal decanter in hand and angled his head so that one smoothly shaved cheek was open for a kiss. El obliged with a quiet “buenas noches”.

“So are they talking again or…?” Max later whispered to her when they took refuge on the dark stairs leading to their bedrooms. The goal was to spy on the parental units: Ayah, golden eyes like smoldering embers in the twilight of the room, silently presented a whisky to Dad, who took it just as silently. Their glasses gently met, lip to lip, in a soundless toast. They knocked those back, and Ayah went to refresh. After the second shot, though, Dad put his tumbler back on the cart. He fished an ice cube out, popped it in his mouth and, crunching loudly, retired into the guestroom. Ayah poured again, but this time to sip. His attention rotated towards the muted TV, eyes going full feline, turning into pale opals of reflected light.

El felt Max’s shoulder go stiff and then fall against hers in disappointment. She stretched a hand out to hug her brother close and rub his arm reassuringly. He entered that weird place of not-fully-teenage yet, and sometimes child in him still shone through – scared, unsure. She vividly remembered a small body climbing into her bed on some nights, years ago.

“No luck, as evident,” she exhaled into his short springy curls. “Let’s go to bed. It’ll be better tomorrow.”

***

It wasn’t better.

El got up at half past five to train after a text from Tavvy and, first things first, went to check the guestroom. The door was closed and locked from the inside, meaning either Dad or Ayah still resided in the doghouse. El wasn’t too sure on the appropriate terminology in this particular situation.

Another day filled with “Rafaela” loomed ahead of her.

She excited the apartment and went across the hall where Lightwood-Banes rented out a giant empty space for rituals and drills. Today, El had to report for the graveyard shift, which in demon hunting meant eight to five. Dad, as the Head, graced the Institute practically daily for a couple of hours here and there, but this evening he would be picking up the main dusk-till-dawn time for a month, relieving uncle Jace. They took turns to allow each other more family time. Dad would probably head out early; tag along to make sure everything was ready for the power transfer.

El was content she got up as planned, without slacking: it left plenty of time for exercise. She was infinitely glad a simple quick shower was all it would take after to get ready. Endless gratefulness with a bit of weird guilt flooded her as she threw her sleep-slack body into a boxer shuffle. El knew her family’s acceptance, resources, and connections far surpassed others’, who were less lucky. For example, not everyone in her situation – even another Shadowhunter – could forget about shaving (or otherwise getting rid of unwanted hair) altogether, once and for all, because their aunt happened to be a potion connoisseur. Not everybody had accumulated funds keeping them up, buying time and providing options, or a literally magical father, who stretched those options beyond human belief…

She gritted her teeth and switched to jumping jacks.

When an hour and a half later showering was done and over with, appetizing smells already wafted through the apartment. El’s suspicions rose in an instant.

“El!” Dad exclaimed, momentarily distracted from guarding an omelet, and waved with a spatula. “Good morning.”

So… “El”, huh? Had she missed something?

“Good morning,” she answered tentatively. “You coming with me after breakfast to check on things?”

He simply nodded, pinched off a grape from the fruit bowl and threw it at his daughter. El, energized from the workout, caught it in her mouth with no effort, chewed, swallowed, and, head thrown back, screamed on full lung capacity: “ARISE FOR THE FEEDING, IMMORTALS!” Dad just grinned at her antics.

The situation explained itself when Ayah, silk robe flowing and hair wet, stepped into the hallway from the guestroom where Dad stayed. Thank Raziel! Also, ew. El’s morning spying suddenly gained a point on the nope scale.

“Another potential career field – an opera singer,” Ayah suggested after mounting his majesty on a bar stool. Dad immediately put a glass by his elbow, that disgusting aloe vera drink with coconut chunks in it Ayah enjoyed. The resulting smile was clearly appreciative.

El evacuated back upstairs to spare her delicate sensibilities and fetch Max. A phantom weight lifted from her shoulders, so she jumped two steps at a time. She wasn’t afraid her parents would never make up, it’s just… Bigots held her family up to very different standards, pretty unrealistic ones. Maybe because Dad and El were less adjusted – by the Angel, what a horrible collocation to even think – to prejudice, or because they were more immersed in that atmosphere daily, she felt like from time to time they both succumbed to this sick desire of not only being flawless – of being _better than_. Than everybody else, and their tongues, and their thoughts. Of being picture-perfect, simply to shut gossips up. And picture-perfect families never fight.

That’s why El kept putting off telling anyone about herself for so long. She was afraid of what judgment the crowd would pass on her parents. “Of course they couldn’t raise a _normal_ child”. El feared accusations of corruption and all other ridiculous toxic things. She became so determined to not open the people who saved her and loved her every moment since to vulnerability, that the depression set in, curling its tendrils around each day of El’s existence. Her fathers’ voices turned pleading during their countless attempts to coax out the root of her suffering, until she cracked, unable to hold everything inside anymore.

El was sure all those cruel words were spoken somewhere, by someone, but she paid them no mind. She got her fair share of shit regularly, but she could take it, held up by family and friends. And she realized her fathers would never think in the terms she did, never would consider her a weakness. Her parents, her brother could take on anything, too, since they all had the very same support structure. She didn’t have to lie to protect them; she was already protecting them, always, by being – and trying – by their side.

And that was what constituted a family.

Dad and El were lucky Ayah was there to remind them of the fact and to counterbalance their anxieties. He had no interest in being perfect (except maybe in his appearance). Couldn’t care less of what others thought, and more – of how his loved once felt. He repeated without fail the simple truths: no one is perfect, there are no perfect families, every family fights. Good families do not pretend to be happy just for show or a picture, don’t bottle things up or push them down. They work through it.

“And we are a good family,” Ayah always said, and all three of its remaining members believed him.

Max’s door, covered in mysterious shifty glitters and static mundane stickers alike, was shut, so El knocked and called out:

“Dude, come down to eat!”

The wood cricked, moving aside to reveal her twitchy brother. Above his head El could see the mess that constituted his room with two isles amidst the chaos: the bed and the desk, overflowed with glass and plastic jars.

“Here, Dad, I’ve made this for you,” Max declared after enduring another health inspection downstairs. On the breakfast bar, beside the juice carafe, he reverently placed a thermo mug. Dad smiled and hugged him close, rubbing his shoulder: “What’s in it, bud?”

Max looked down. His voice got progressively quieter as he spoke. “It’s a potion I made myself, like, an original recipe. A booster, you know? For speed and strength and stuff, to add to your runes.” Then he kinda completely folded on himself and concluded: “So that you don’t become demon fodder.”

Throughout this speech Ayah maintained a clearly forced casual face. El imagined he got excited to see Max practicing more studious hands-on magic again, and tried playing cool to not scare him off with too much enthusiasm. At that last phrase, though, Ayah’s face crumbled. He quickly rose away from his place and turned around, masking it as a milk run to the fridge. El felt her lips stretching into something sad and sweet. It was easy lately to disregard how much younger Max was, how hard certain things hit him. He had always been such a happy baby-toddler-kid, and his sensitivity to any turbulence around often slipped her mind. He must’ve really wanted dads to make peace quicker to pick his beakers and cauldron back up.

Dad kept silent, but his caressing hand on Max’s shoulder never ceased. “Thank you,” he finally said, equally reserved, and reached out for his present. El watched as he took a tentative sip and made a truly heroic attempt to wipe his face clear of resulting disgust. Shyly glancing up right after, Max caught only a gentle smile. “I feel stronger already.”

“Where’s my power potion, though?” The question carried excessive bravado. But the mood got so somber so quickly, and El really wanted it fixed: early mornings discouraged angst, plus they rarely managed synchronized breakfasts in this household. No need to waste the opportunity.

“It’s only for boys!” Max burst. He straightened in alarm, and his magic routinely splashed hues of blue into deep browns and blacks, until he blinked at El with lapis lazuli eyes instead of chestnut ones. It seemed like he wanted to literally snatch the mug away from her if she persisted. “I mean, the ingredients will only work on boys. I came up with the recipe pretty quickly… I could… ” He looked tortured saying it. “I could modify some for you?”

“Pft, nah. Don’t need it. My youth is my booster.”

“Hey!” Dad exclaimed, faux-outraged.

Max swiped the kitchen with a wary glance, starting with Ayah by the fridge, and evacuated with his plate. He also grabbed a frankfurter El was about to skewer (she could’ve sworn it was real – damn squishies!) and disappeared towards the TV, leaving behind a somewhat brighter atmosphere.

“You’ve done well, Max Michael!” Ayah called out and barely got a moan of acknowledgment. To Dad, he whispered: “How is it?”

“Ichor levels of “please, no”, but I’m sure it’s effective. Want to check the ingredients?”

It was obvious Ayah wanted too, and bad.

“No, I trust him,” he said courageously. “Though, if you start feeling queasy, do give me a call.”

***

 _Dear Granddaughter_ , Grandma wrote, _I deeply regret the way our last meeting ended. I’ve made a fool of myself. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive an old woman. Please, join me for lunch when I’m in New York again next month? It would be a shame to abandon such a lovely custom. I love you and your brother, El. Never doubt that._

El wished phones still were flips so she could slam hers shut with satisfaction instead of just activating the lock screen. That seemed strangely anticlimactic.


	2. Jace 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS A PROBLEMATIC SITUATION GOING ON, even if it's accidental, so — beware. Please, check end notes for additional **spoilery** warnings, if you want!
> 
> This is about to get weird, BUT STAY WITH ME, it'll all make sense in the end :D
> 
> More ~~bad~~ Spanish: El jokingly asks her buttercup uncle about how he's doing.

Clary leaned closer to the holographic chart to check on something, and her hair poured forward over her left shoulder in a coppery wave. Even the Institute’s offensive florescence became enchanting shine when it hit those strands. Jace was looking in another direction altogether, sluggish after a hectic night and too preoccupied with some newbie’s butchered report, but his peripheral vision registered this hypnotizing movement, Jace’s gaze slid and he just… got stuck.

He had a catalog of memories attached to Clary’s hair. He remembered washing the blood out of it gently; remembered tying it up in a loose bun while she heaved over the kitchen sink. Remembered gently tucking it behind her rosy ear; remembered it smelling of lavender and mint. Remembered it covering his sweat-slick thighs like a silky blanket. Soft to the touch. Always so soft.

Sometimes he thought it wasn’t normal, to be so in love with a person after years together. He separated loving someone wholeheartedly (which thrived on longevity) and a state of being in love (which, Jace was pretty sure, implied limits). He tried jokingly airing these concerns a couple of times before and received empty stares in return – people and otherwise had no idea what he was on about. Turned out, he didn't need to seek further than the obvious. Alec had mooed – the talk took place during lunchtime, and his face had been stuffed with noodles – and started nodding frantically. The whole upper half of Alec had moved with it. He copied the gesture from Max, Jace was pretty sure. Adorable.

“Right?!” Alec had said once the noodles got swallowed. He had sounded exasperated with himself. “The guy married me; it’s pretty safe to assume he’ll go on the freaking date! Have I still spent twelve minutes composing the fucking text? Yes. Yes, I have.”

So it was probably their parabatai peculiarity. Or a familial trait.

Clary picked Isabelle’s gift for today, a ribbed knit olive dress with high neck and long sleeves. Good. It wasn’t jacket season quite yet, but a chill lingered in the morning and evening air. The material kept sliding down Clary’s forearms from where she bunched it up at the elbows, and she, in turn, kept readjusting it mindlessly, engulfed in reading. Contrasting with her fair skin, the fabric emphasized the delicate lines of her wrists. A golden charm bracelet followed its edge up and down with the movements of its wearer. There was a Soundless rune healing on her inner wrist.

Jace drew the air in through his nose, calmly and quietly, and exhaled in fashion.

He thanked the Angel every other minute since, after discussion with a healer, Clary put herself on maternity leave (“house arrest”, according to her) active this morning. No more patrols; she would spend this stage of pregnancy in surveillance, analytics, and research. Instructing recruits also fell on her shoulders, but no demonstrations. Jace could cry relieved tears, he was so happy. Neither he nor Simon dared mention a sabbatical before, because they enjoyed their extremities dangling were Mother Nature intended, intact. They suffered silently and communicated through intense glares, bound together by constant looming threat of stress-induced heart attacks. Jace was pretty sure: if they would have gathered enough courage to speak up, Clary would have extended her operative days just to teach them a lesson. But he and Simon were wise men by this point, hardened by life and aware of their lack of uteruses and medical education both. They stayed patient and thus won the long game, pretty much.

In front of Jace, Clary frowned – the tale of that red-gold eyebrow shifted – and spun in her chair a bit. Now, he could see the swell of her stomach, a curve of her thigh; her pale calf, crossed by the hemline of the dress. The gentle sweep of her elegant ankle, extended by beige lacquered pump.

Then, another spark on the periphery, but inside him this time: Jace turned and watched as his parabatai entered the Institute, followed closely by his niece. El was a broad-shouldered, tall girl, almost Jace’s height, but Alec dwarfed them both in comparison. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, El a bit tanner than her father, they passed for blood relatives way more than Jace and Alec ever could. They looked like _biological_ family.

Wasn’t it funny? In the past, when Maryse was still emotionally abusive and not even remotely shy about it, Jace never really cared. She showered him with affection and squeezed him to her chest if he proved useful or did good; she shoved him away and renounced him and ignored him on a whim, letting her personal interest drive her actions. And Jace loved her to pieces through all of that. Such behavior _made sense_ to him, after Valentine’s conditioning. Jace never got angry or sad. Or, more accurately, he did, but it never really registered. His feelings were never hurt. The repression constituted into a strange state of discomfort to be hastily drowned in alcohol, violence, and sexual escapades, without delving too deep into the causes.

And now, with so much mended between them, with such grandiose work done, with Maryse a different person and years behind… now, he was hurt. By a mindless remark.

“-really tried, but it’s impossible. I’m actually a bit discouraged by my own abilities. Had more faith in them, let me tell you,” Alec’s voice penetrated the thick fog of unpleasant thoughts.

“Just pour it out, Dad, he’ll never know.”

“Hello, outsiders,” Jace greeted them. “Tell me, what news from the surface? Has it stopped raining blood and fire yet? Are the gods satisfied with our sacrifices?”

“Tito! ¿Qué te pasa, calabaza?”

Alec let El pass as his forehead wrinkles deepened and he snatched the tablet with the disastrous report away from Jace. “Why haven’t you drawn an Energy rune yet? Want me to do it?”

Caught that. Of course. “Nah. Keeps me awake too long after shifts and gets my sleep patterns all scrumbled. I’m usually fine through the night, but it’s the end of the month and all.”

“I know, brother,” Alec looked up from scrolling, frown now deeper on his face. “Thank you.” He reached to slap Jace’s shoulder, except his free hand wasn’t free – it had a travel mug in it. Cue the awkward fumbling.

A metaphorical light bulb sparked to life over El’s head. “Oh, Dad, I know! You should let uncle Jace drink it! That won’t be disrespectful or anything, and we’ll keep it a secret.”

Jace glanced down at the mug suspiciously.

“Actually, would you? It’s a booster potion Max brewed for me, supposed to help with strength and speed and the like. Should be gentler than the rune, but still tie you over.” Alec was back to looking though the text document. Man, was he _not_ happy with what he saw. “I can’t finish it because it’s so syrupy sweet it’s disgusting, but I can’t pour out my kid’s creation, either. I’m not a monster.”

“Wasn’t Max over the whole potion making thing?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, but why can’t El have it?”

His niece huffed, blowing a renegade hair strand away: “Apparently, this particular recipe works only for boys, so.”

Worth a try. Succumbing to curiosity, Jace took the mug, unscrewed the lid – it revealed to be still mostly filled with green smoothie-consistency liquid – and sniffed. The potion had an odor, but not an unpleasant one. More… foreign, like another person’s house. Come to think of it, it did smell a bit like Bane-Lightwood apartment. Jace shrugged and took a sip. Definitely nothing to write home about, but the taste wasn’t as revolting or sweet as Alec made it out to be.

“It’s fine.”

“You’re a stronger man than I am- okay, that’s enough, WHO COMPILED THIS REPORT ON THE MAVKAS INCIDENT?!” Alec shouted, turning to the room in general. The hand with the tablet in it he raised in the air over his head and shook the thing like an avenging sword of the Lord. People became meek and very busy under their leader’s glare, running past to hide from divine wrath as quickly as they could.

In the background, Clary shook her head with an exasperated smile and rotated her chair to its previous position.

Oh, right, it was Sodiq Silverwater who wrote it, Jace recalled, watching as the report’s author detached from his cowering peers and went to face certain death. He was Lydia’s husband’s… younger brother? Nephew? Jace wanted to say nephew. He and El used to be inseparable during childhood, constantly trying to ditch Max in favor of more mature, sophisticated games. Silverwaters even hoped for a parabatai bond at one point, but El declined for reasons now obvious – Clary and Simon stayed unique in their mixed-gendered link. That rejection broke the budding camaraderie real fast. Except where Sodiq was hurt and distant before, now, when the cause of separation became clear, he turned forgiving and understanding, and strolled around with a ginormous torch for his unfated bondmate.

Not like El noticed it, of course.

“Sir,” barked Sodiq, saluting, “I believe the report to be mine, sir.”

Alec immediately mellowed – he loved people who owned up to their shit. Brownie points poured. To Jace, it was obvious. Sodiq was probably ready to piss his cool leather pants.

“Please, explain all these mistakes, recruit.” The tablet got flipped around and presented to the boy with unnecessary flourish – Magnus’s mannerisms were like contagious disease. Beads of sweat covered Sodiq’s shaved head, and one slid down his ashen face. But his voice remained leveled. “I believe I have accidently turned in a draft instead of the edited version, sir.”

Seriously, Alec was ready to feed the boy cookies with a glass of warm milk, how wasn’t anyone else seeing this?

“Well, you have seven minutes to fix it, recruit.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Hi, Rick,” El unexpectedly intruded, cheerful. She was practically vibrating with impatience the whole time, so the exclamation gashed out almost against her will. Sodiq, clearly mortified to be reprimanded in front of his crush – by her father, no less – glued his gaze to the floor. One last quick look was allowed, though. “Hi, El.”

Oh, this was good. This was way too fucking good. With the absence of popcorn, Jace had to resort to the green shake. It got better after each mouthful, anyway.

“You on patrol today?”

“Yeah, till four. Northern sector.”

“Cool, me too!”

The dialog sounded promising. In theory. In practice, the boy’s barely contained happiness at the patrol news translated into a look of mild indigestion. Jace’s heart truly went out to him. He also couldn’t fathom how anything got done around this place, and he was heading it for the past month.

“Five minutes.” Alec’s honed monotone was vaguely implying all kinds of things.

“Sir,” Sodiq saluted again. “See you, El.”

“Yeah.”

“I hope you realize he’s into you, kid,” Jace said as soon as the boy disappeared around some corner. But his aim to clarify the situation with some wingmaning, maybe play cupid (a lazy one), backfired. El’s reaction was unprecedented. Her eyes got huge and sparkling with anger, and she rounded on her uncle so quickly, the uniform jacket squeaked: “By the Angel, shut up! No he doesn’t, he hates me! He treats me way different now! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” 

Well, this was less good and no fun at all. She couldn’t really be thinking that, could she? Of course, Sodiq treated her differently, but for reasons directly opposite of hate. He was just a fumbling fool, bad at expressing himself. Jace understood where the wariness came from, but El’s countless friends, not to mention family, would have never let her work with a true hater. Sodiq would've ended up cursed for all eternity by Madzie, if anything. 

Jace opened his mouth to reassure, but a mental equivalent of an exclamation point bloomed inside his mind. He threw his parabatai a look; Alec discreetly shook his head in a forbidding gesture. 

“Sorry, smartie,” Jace quickly backtracked. “What do I know, right.”

“Exactly!”

“Okay, that’s enough. Off to the training room with you,” Alec started pushing fuming El away with one hand on her back. When they passed by the monitoring station, Clary waved and asked: “Dinner tonight as planned?”

“Yep,” Alec confirmed and added louder, for Jace’s benefit: “Get some sleep till then!”

“Yes, Boss!”

El turned and stuck her tongue out, but looked away before Jace could toast her with his trophy mug.

***

Literally everyone and their mother had already bought Max one of those strange food-shaped soft toys. Everyone except for Jace, that is. The discovery was made when he asked Max to explain his obsession (which a grown ass man couldn’t necessarily understand first try). The rapidly impending fatherhood pushed Jace to connect with children around him beyond just being a cool uncle for a couple of hours. He made good friends with Rafaela in the recent years, but that counted little since she breached the young adult category. He found himself waiting for Max to similarly catch up so they could… joke around without restrictions? Go on dangerous adventures and visit bars together after? Talk about girls-boys-others?

Absurd. Jace won’t be able to wait for his own child to reach legal age before becoming their friend. From what he could gather, Max fostered great friendships with both his fathers individually. So, it was doable. Jace just needed a re-adjustment in standards and behavior. And, just like in many other life situations, practice.

Max had pulled his prized collection from its box to arrange it atop a bedcover one item at a time, alongside a running commentary on each piece. His voice had rose high with enthusiasm, underlined by delighted gestures. There had been a staggering amount of detail. Jace found himself… very impressed, actually. It took good memory and strong vocabulary, to describe a thing in such coherent way. Max had used several pretty big, deliberate words, too – unsurprising, considering his parents were a pair of gigantic nerds. But even putting the smarts aside, it was just fun, talking to a person who’s that spirited. They had squished the toys and watched them retain their original shapes, they had compared different smells and textures. Jace had gotten legit hungry looking at all that colorful fake food. There was a ton from dads and grandparents, several from aunt Cat and uncle Simon; Clary and Izzy managed to add to the pile, as well.

But not uncle Jace.

In fact, in a touching role reversal, uncle Jace got presented with a squishy of his very own: a little salmon sushi with a smiling face on the rice part. Jace had it dangling from his desk lamp in the home office, too worried the proposed keychain wear would ruin the delicate gift.

Obviously, it was time to correct the situation. Except, even after the conversation with Max, Jace still had no idea where the damn things were sold. Mundane retail, especially internet retail, confused him to no end. Plus, he clearly couldn’t just buy any random item for the apparent connoisseur. He had to get help.

Not Alec’s – daddy dearest would've arranged the whole thing, and Jace wanted the effort coming from him personally. That had left him with an unfortunate choice between Magnus (the other dad) and Simon (bigger nerd than the previous two). Jace wasn’t naïve: he could already sense all the future panicked calls to Magnus for his parental expertise. Enough superior smugness would be coming from that direction soon. By the Angel, he hated that. So he had went with Simon. Voluntarily. By the Angel, he hated that even more.

“Uncle Jace, I love it!” To Jace’s great relief, the suffering paid off, apparently. Max’s face was mottled, a mosaic of dark blue and dark brown, his glamour failing the boy in all the excitement. “I love it so much!”

When Max was younger, he used to jump in place when happy; he didn’t anymore, of course, but his movements still conveyed heightened emotions with their choppiness. His present, he hugged to his chest. In the end (after hours of scrolling and doubting and remembering Simon’s disgusting genuine face), Jace had picked a squishy described as “slow-rising cucumber-scented pancakes stack with double sunny side up and bacon slices toppings, bonus tomato halves included”. It had been those bonus tomato halves that did it, Jace loved tomatoes.

“Want to go squish it and time how long it takes to straighten?”

“Oh, I should real-”

“Blueberry, please; don’t corner your uncle. And mind the glamour, darling. Just like we practiced. By your request, I might add.”

It was Jace’s own fault he initiated gift-giving once barely through the door: he and Max were still in the hall, while the dining room already filled with bursts of beaconing laughter. Magnus must’ve lost them.

“‘Cause I can’t wear a charm my _dad_ conjured for me, I’m not five! It’s embarrassing!” Max protested the idea and the nickname both. His tone bordered on whining, but held. He took a deep breath: his skin evened out into a lovely brown, and the two stray blue curls joined the black mass. “See.”

“Very well. Now, leave Jace be, you’ll spend time together later. Put your present away and come back down. We’re about to eat.”

Max didn’t run but still hurried; heavy steps vibrated through the floor. Magnus’s smiling eyes followed him before coming to rest on Jace. “You should wipe your feet, Shadowhunter. Hecate knows where you’ve been. And wash your hands this time, will y-”

Max’s footsteps returned quickly – now it was a run. “Uncle! Here!” Something red drew an arc through the air towards Jace, who caught the missile without conscious thought. In his palm lay half a tomato. “I’ll keep the other one! Tomato of friendship!” With that, Max retreated, and now his father was full out laughing.

The toy looked very elaborate, with textured detail of seeds glazed in something shiny to emulate tomato’s juicy insides. Warmth enveloped Jace’s heart, and he swallowed through a suddenly constricted throat. His fingers closed around the squishy. It was soft and incredibly satisfying to squeeze. The world swam before Jace in a misty haze.

“See. No need to worry. You’re going to be a wonderful father,” Magnus said softly, taking a step forward. Shadows of the corridor fell behind, letting his figure into the light. Jace blinked unspent tears away and looked at the warlock for what felt like the first time that evening. The man wore a meticulously constructed tasteful look not every fashion magazine cover would have managed to achieve. His face was soft; chin not drawn up in defiance as it usually happened around Jace. Wow. Magnus must have really wanted to be supportive.

“Well don' you look like a pretty picture,” Jace drawled, allowing a purposefully sultry grin to bloom on his lips.

Magnus blinked. “What.”

“I said, you look great.”

“Oh, I- thank you?” The warlock seemed genuinely surprised, but quickly gathered a smirk of his own. “Pardon my slow wit; it's just that this is not our modus operandi, typically.”

He spoke only the truth: brought together by necessity of family, Magnus and Jace were not the types of people to gravitate towards one another without a push. Jace constantly felt the need to clarify where his loyalties lie – with Alec and their shared parabatai bond. Magnus seemed forever unimpressed with all things Jace. The tentative balance they’ve established over the years included mutual quips and gallons upon gallons of verbal poison. An occasional prank battle was known to break out (not a war, no; the war was ongoing and never stopped).

In the last several years there also might have been joint gym visits that had nothing to do with killing demons and everything to do with vanity. But complements were absent from their dynamic.

“Well,” Jace felt sparkling champagne of mirth and mischief bubbling up inside. “Time for a change, don't you think? It's been too long; I'm tired of the old ways.” His company lingered on hesitance, so he added: “Besides, I should start acting more maturely – as you said, I’ll be a father soon. Time to charm potential babysitters.”

That seemed to have finally convinced Magnus, who raised a playful eyebrow. His words sounded mock-flirting: “In that case. How very smart of you. It is my pleasure, mister Herondale. Let me assure: you, too, look dashing. Please, take my arm and let me be your escort.”

In the dining room both Izzy and Clary showered the pair of them in laughter while Alec made a funny face. Magnus carried out a pompous façade for as long as he could, but soon joined his in-laws in their delighted cackling. He patted Jace on the arm before letting go.

The touch’s warmth lingered.

***

Jace bitched about Maryse all night previous, and even managed to squeeze some bitching in during pre-dawn morning hours. He was all bitched-out. Alec, on the other hand, rarely bitched unprompted. So Jace gave him a couple of jabs.

“And before you start playing Satan’s unpaid intern, let me assure you: I _know_ I overreacted, okay? Just let a guy whine for once,” Alec stated half an hour later, pointing his bourbon at the assembly of siblings, even though no one was about to interrupt.

Post-traumatic support-slash-therapy group is what these dinners really were, at the heart of them. Every time Maryse and Robert visited, their children drifted into a flock the day after. If no feathers were ruffled, they enjoyed bonus family time. Otherwise, they send the kids to bed and got hammered.

Clary savored her healer-approved single glass of dry red against Jace’s side, allowing him to use her shoulder as an armrest. Her gentle perfume enveloped them, and the loveseat they occupied got cozy and home-like. Across the coffee table, Izzy, stilettos now gone, appropriately threw herself on the fainting couch, and Simon got busy massaging her feet from its pouf.

“I don’t think you overreacted, _guy_ ,” Clary said with Izzy humming her support. “I think you under-reacted for years, and now everything slowly evens out. Soon, there’s gonna be balance, mark my words.”

Alec sighed in his armchair. It faced the others, its back to the crackling fireplace. Framed by flames, he looked like a supervillain. He probably needed more than one drink, to be honest, but duty came first. “Maybe. But I don’t want El to remember me this way – bitter, angry. Bah,” he knocked the bourbon back. Seemingly on cue, Magnus strolled over with a refreshment. He also gave Simon his martini vodka and vanished all leftover glassware with a single snap of his long, elegant fingers. It rarely happened outside of work anymore, for the sake of Max’s morals, and Jace’s attention lingered. Those fingers then dug into Alec’s shoulders when Magnus stepped behind the chair to massage his husband’s tension out of him.

“She won’t, because you’re not a person stuck in one emotional state,” Magnus tenderly assured him, softer with each word. Alec pinched the bridge of his nose: “I guess.”

“By the Angel, people, should I start massaging someone?” Jace asked. “You’re making me feel inadequate.”

“Well, I will always welcome a massage from the ragged and scandalous Mr. Herondale,” Magnus professed, “but we should wait till alcohol takes my husband to bed, first.”

The words caused a wave of scorching heat to roll over Jace, so strong and unexpected that his fingers weakened, and the tumbler held in them almost slipped away. For a second he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think; his heart soared. He quickly glanced at Alec, who, turned out, was thoroughly enjoying the new joke. Down at Clary next, but she simply giggled: “I like this, more of this, please!” And, finally, Jace’s eyes landed on Magnus.

It was as if he never properly noticed the warlock before.

Magnus cocked his head slightly, accepting the caused amusement. Orange bracket of highlight from the fire slid up his graceful neck and along his jawline. It was a very sculptured jawline. Jace’s gaze traveled down it before reaching the warlock’s smiling mouth. Magnus rarely favored the brighter lipsticks Izzy did, and the one in use today seemed to have melted into the skin without breaking the outlines of those doll-like lips, leaving them looking deliberately soft. Every single thing about Magnus was always so… precise. The strokes of him. Every swirl of each hairlock. Gestures. Shadows and shimmers applied to his face – Jace didn’t know where to look for them, could only guess the presence that enhanced the natural precision further. The arch of a brow; the eyelid it framed, uncreased, and wisps of long lashes fanning from underneath it – cover for glimpses of gold. From fluid movements to tantalizing inflections, there was a lot of thought put into the Magnus Bane persona.

And yet, right here, right now, it dawned on Jace what a hilariously delicate shell it really was. Because in the muted light, when colorful details and flashiness of the disguise got reduced to an echoing glimmer, it somehow became evident: this man was a force of nature, a surge of power barely confined by its human form. Soaked through with magic. A storm behind the window. Never before have Jace realized that the glass was so incredibly thin.

How, Jace thought, how crazy must it feel, to have such a person in your arms? Submitting to you? Trusting that you will be able to keep their force contained?

He swallowed heavily with an audible parched click. Misinterpreting the pause, Magnus locked eyes with him, and a sliver of doubt showed in warlock’s expression, a question – have I overstepped? Desperate to reassure, Jace was quick to say: “Do you want my fist putting your husband to bed early, instead?”

Magnus relaxed and pretended to weigh the offer before refusing. “Let’s not get obvious. Sneaking around is half the fun, don’t you think?”

Thought still came unwillingly to Jace – he felt dazed – and only Clary shifting by his side shook him out of it. She went for a more comfortable position, but something clearly interfered. Since Jace tried his damnedest to elevate any discomfort from his family (plus, do it before Simon could steal the chance), he switched into battle mode, breathing free now, and almost jumped to his feet.

“Relax,” Clary said, one hand tugging him back down, another – digging between the couch cushions and her legs. “There’s something…” Whatever she was tugging at abruptly gave, and the hand popped free. Light hit a red, round side, slightly caved. “Oh. Well, that’s not nice, losing your friendship tomato on the first day, uncle Jace.”

Jace grabbed at the toy, mortified to have lost his gift. It probably slipped his pocket. What if Max would’ve seen it? Clary huffed, her nose scrunching up adorably and hair blinding, almost one with the flames. Almost as bright as the pair of piercing, golden eyes behind her.

***

“I’ve only been on this fucking leave for a week. One week! And already people don’t take me seriously.”

“Give me a list, I’ll derune them.”

“Won’t fly; we don’t do that anymore, remember?”

“Oh… sucks.”

“Yeah. Plus you’d have to derune yourself first.”

“Of course… wait, what?”

Clary huffed, rolling her eyes, as Jace finally looked up at her looming figure from his sword polishing. The non-euphemistical kind.

“Literally all anyone does anymore is treat me like a dog. Come over, see how the pregnant one’s doing, give me some treats, fuck off. If any of you try to ruffle my hair, I’m shooting. And I’m aiming for the kneecaps.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m serious. I need to keep certain image up for the recruits. They’re getting rowdy.”

Looking even closer, Jace couldn’t find traces of genuine upset on her face. If she felt honestly angry or disrespected, he knew by now, she wouldn’t have told anyone before handling the situation. But was it wise to let things escalate that far?

“Train them till they’re too tired to be smartasses,” he suggested carefully, feeling angry on Clary’s behalf, but also mesmerized by the way lashes framed her eyes. “As a preventive measure. And I’ll do better. I’m sorry if I was neglectful these past few days. Your research saved my operatives and a whole club of mundanes yesterday. You know that, right?”

She sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. And you don’t have to do better. You’re pretty okay.”

“Am I?” He grinned.

“Yeah. But ours is busy work, and I understand that. Go about your day and stop checking on me just for the sake of it. Especially when your mind is clearly elsewhere. I’m not ill and I’m not a child.”

“You’re a healthy adult Shadowhunter.”

“Correct.”

She swayed forward and hugged his head to her side. He wanted to palm her stomach and feel the firmness under the soft layers, but his hands were dirty with oil, grime, and ichor, so he was careful to keep them away instead. From under Clary’s elbow he soon noticed Alec approaching, suit slightly rumpled after a night’s work.

“Duty calls, uncle Jace,” he announced and presented his parabatai with the now familiar travel mug. “Freshly teleported.” Accepting it after Clary broke the hug, Jace unscrewed the lid and took a long gulp. The taste certainly grew on him after a week. “I don’t know why you dislike this, it’s pretty good.”

Alec made a complicated face – half guilty father, half relieved survivor. “I don’t even know. I tried again yesterday, and… just, no. So syrupy. Probably an allergy or something. You’re doing great, though. Reaping the benefits. That raid yesterday was really impressive. Good work.”

Preening under his brother’s praise, Jace smiled smugly. “Like I ever do any other kind.”

“Good work, Clary,” Alec ignored him. “You saved lives. I calculated several other outcomes while reading the report, and. Thank Raziel for your presence in the analytics team, that’s all I’ll say on the topic.”

“Thank you. I wish the recruits were this appreciative.”

“Oh?”

“The usual. What could a pregnant lady holed up inside the Institute all day know?”

They looked outright comical next to each other, which always made Jace’s heart swell. He loved this view: his tower of a brother and the deceptively delicate woman he loved, hopelessly underlining each other’s awkward angles and bumps. But their connection showed too, a mutual understanding in their eyes Jace could never share – of what it’s like to be underestimated because of what you are, before any skill level could even be demonstrated.

“Couple of loaded marches should shut them right up,” Alec said quietly while pinching Clary’s sleeve, and Jace finger-gunned at him – truly, great minds think alike. “Ground the ones that are especially interested in heroics for a week or two. I don’t need hotheads out on the streets. Well,” he looked at Jace, askance. “Not any _more_ hotheads. My soldiers will possess a clear understanding of the importance proper mission preparation holds. Otherwise I’ll send them back to the Academy.”

“Yes, Boss,” Clary gave a smile, nodding.

Then, something in Jace’s head clicked. “Wait! You said “freshly teleported” – is Magnus here?”

Alec received some texts and dove into reading, so he sounded distracted: “Uh, yeah. The Harbor selkies are here for pre-Samhain name blessings for their young.”

“That’ll take a lot out of him, though, right? If I remember correctly.”

“Yes. It’s… tough. But he can handle it.”

“You gonna feed the dude?”

Alec tore his eyes from the screen for a second. His expression soured, and the single brow raise came out to play. “No. He said not to fuss, so I’m not fussing. I’m actually going home right after I’ll deal with…” He, at last, let Clary’s sleeve go – his hand relaxed for a while there and was just hanging, stretching the fabric – and pointed at his phone, “with… whatever this is?”

“Go, big guy,” Clary laughed and waved him off. She then turned to Jace and instructed, voice like honey: “And you, keep on going. Maybe put your back into it.”

***

The small conference room already stood empty, door ajar. Not a single selkie child in sight; the only sign of recent ruckus was disarray among swivel chairs. Those definitely got a good use today.

Magnus sat leaning back in one at the head of the prolonged table, the most prominent space occupant here. His jacket was off, thrown haphazardly over neighboring furniture, and he rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, baring the forearms. He had one hand behind his neck, elbow sticking out, as the other lay on the tabletop before him, palm up. The pose was tired, but not lifeless, same as the silence in the room – still charged by the energy a mass of people (well, selkies) left behind.

Seeing Magnus brought worry but, also, strangely, a certain sense of peace.

Jace knocked. Like a bright and charming personality that he famously was, he also added, out loud: “Knock-knock.”

Magnus slowly tore his eyes away from where he studied a stained glass panel of Jonathan Shadowhunter’s Ascension. When he saw Jace, the habit of many years won over, and the warlock scowled. But his features almost instantly cleared, frown conceding to a grin.

“Well-well-well, mister Herondale, sir! Come, come.”

Jace came in and. He knew he didn’t need an excuse to be here, but still raised a hand with a plastic bag full of takeout in the air, shield-like. Magnus cooed.

“Oh, Alexander, that silly sap. I asked him not to make a fuss!”

“And he hasn't. This is all solely my initiative; I'm the only one to blame.”

“I could _never_ blame my parabatai-in-law!” The warlock gasped, pearl-clutching.

Jace whole being cringed. The thought of being even remotely brotherly to Magnus pained him. “No!” That sounded too forceful. He needed back on that mock-flirt train. “I mean. This term is too boring to describe our relationship, don't you think?”

Magnus tapped the table with painted nails in speculation while squinting at Jace, measuring him up. Finally, the playfulness came back. “Forgive me. I forgot there are no amateurs here. What’s that you have?”

“Greek. Thai place was packed.”

“That’s fine.”

Magnus was obviously too tired for a proper conversation. He made his phone play music without really touching it, and a classical piece floated up to the sealing. Jace got busy unpacking the food. He wasn’t hungry, himself, but made a modest plate for the sake of company. Warlocks burned through physical energy on a very different level compared to their magical one. They could have magnitudes of spells left, but their human bodies exhausted resources way quicker. Luckily, after a good portion of glucose, protein, and carbs a lot leveled out.

As evident. Soon, Magnus’s appetite kicked in, and he started eating for the pleasure of it, not just because he knew he should. The color returned to his face, and he stole an array of things from under Jace’s nose just to be annoying. Jace pushed the plate closer to him, trying not to be too obvious.

Just as the warlock’s mood, the music abruptly switched to something quick and igniting.

“What is this?”

Magnus smiled. “Salsa. The number I’m going to perform with Isabelle.”

“Sounds very… exciting. But, and feel free to stop me if you want it to be a surprise or whatever, what is salsa? Exactly?”

Magnus did that thing where he managed to look insulted yet simultaneously pitying. “You don’t know what salsa is?”

“It’s a dance, not a sauce, I get that much. But we were only taught waltz in Idris, so.”

Magnus studied him again. The borders of their redefined friendship were shifting, and he obviously preferred treading carefully to avoid making a giant mess of things. But a mischievous smirk overcame his doubts soon enough.

“All right, get up,” the warlock said. He wiped his lips and fingers with a napkin, still chewing, and then undid and took off his tie. “I’ll do Clarissa a _huge_ favor.”

Jace stood, wary but giddy at the same time, and Magnus waved all furniture in the room to one wall, creating sufficient space near the door. He turned to Jace, nodding along with the happy music.

“It’s eight count. Well, actually seven, but we’ll begin here. Four and eight are pauses in neutral position. See, my feet side by side like that? That’s it. Start with left forward step…” Magnus demonstrated as he spoke, mechanical, drawing a back-and-forth line on the floor similar to how instructors in Idris drew waltz boxes years ago. He didn’t have to look at his shoes, so instead he watched Jace, who under scrutiny had no choice but to stop gawking and pay attention. “Got that? Then add energy to it. Some fluidity.” Magnus rose his left hand up and away, supporting an invisible partner’s hand, and his right splayed over his flat stomach, just above the belt. The movements stopped being instructional and stiff and became _dancing_. It was obvious that he lived through centuries of dance being the staple of social interaction. Magnus’s torso shifted; his hips swayed, cocky. The belt buckle glimmered with each step. His thighs- 

Jace looked away in panic. Up. There was Magnus’s neck, freed from the tie. His golden throat. A dip between collarbones, visible in the gap of collar unbuttoned three buttons deep. Higher. To warlock’s face: the music brought a lot of enjoyment, if the blissed-out squint was to be believed. It seemed like in this moment Magnus wasn’t aware of his pupil’s presence at all, and just dissolved in a simple rhythm. He counted out with his fingers snapping and a breathy chant: one-two-three-four, five-six-seven-eight. Snap-snap, snap-snap. Snap-snap, snap-snap.

Jace could hear everything. A slight unclearness in the audio quality, shoe soles squeaking against wooden floor. Whisper of Magnus’s clothes.

“Got that?” The warlock stopped, smiling again. “Now you try.”

A good portion of martial arts and combat discipline in general relayed on copying movements – easy-peasy. Jace performed the steps like he would in a training room.

“No- no! Don’t go so wide. Stay even, shoulder length max.”

He made appropriate corrections and could actually catch in the music the second he got it right. He kept going, steady, measuring the distance visually by the position of desk and chairs. Magnus hummed his approval, and suddenly sashayed over, falling into Jace’s tempo on perpendicular trajectory. They glided together in what, to Jace, felt like absolute harmony, until Magnus announced a pause.

“Very well. Now, turn here.”

Facing him was… difficult. It chopped breathing patterns up, squeezed ribs with a steel hoop. They were almost identical in height. From this close, Jace could see a small beauty mark above Magnus’s right eyebrow; could _smell_ him. The perfume was sweet and heavy, yet too well matched to be called cloying. Izzy adored scents like this, too, but where hers were floral, Magnus’s brought smoke, leather, and spice. And, of course, sandalwood. It compiled half of that Lightwood-Bane household smell, but came much stronger now, landed on Jace’s tongue, somehow familiar.

“Give me your left hand,” Magnus commandeered. He swooped it mid-raise, squeezed Jace’s fingers between his thumb and forefinger. The grip was dry and firm. Magnus’s rings were one temperature with his skin. “This is how you’ll want to hold your follow’s hand. When you’ll lead your partner, ask them to provide resistance, here, at the palm. Like this. Push now.”

Jace’s left palm was less callused compared to his right, the sword hand, but still not gentle by any means. Nevertheless, tiny hot pinpricks ran across it as Magnus aligned the heel of his to Jace’s. Jace pushed without any strength behind it, just with intent, the way he would push a door he wanted open. Magnus didn’t badge.

“Understand? It’s stability. And you’ll provide direction, this way.” A caress across his flank and to the shoulder blade – Jace’s right elbow flew in the air to clear the way. Magnus’s hand was the same size as his, the same width, if a lot more elegant. But on Jace’s back, its touching warmth felt huge. “When moving forward, go like this,” the warlock used the heel of his palm again to press gently, and it manifested a bit to the side, as if Magnus was pushing him away. Then the pressure changed to pull, and Jace almost stumbled face first into Magnus’s… everything. “Obviously, when moving backwards it’s the other way around. Got it?”

Yes. Jace fucking got that, and then some. More than he could chew, frankly. He was paranoid about Magnus possibly feeling his rapid heartbeat under that shoulder blade and asking about it.

“Now, let’s try this proper.” The warlock rearranged them, accepting the following role: put his right hand in Jace’s, his left – on his shoulder. Relieved, Jace mirrored their previous embrace. Magnus was broader than both him and Alec, because a lack of Shadowhunter strength demanded compensation. “Lead me. And, one-two-three-four. Listen to the music.”

Magnus was clearly having fun and enjoying himself; Jace could barely manage. He repeated the gesture he’s been taught, and the warlock, as sensitive as a butterfly to the wind, went back, thus starting their joint dance. The fabric of Magnus’s waistcoat was covered in intricate golden embroidery, and Jace’s fingertips itched with an urge to explore its scratchy lines and knots. He hoped to discern that famously slow magical heartbeat and discover if the Academy's teachings were true. He wanted to taste Magnus’s easy-going amused smile, but was too afraid to look away from the supernatural, sharp eyes above it.

“I swear, you and you brother both have several left feet,” Magnus chuckled suddenly, and Jace zoomed back in to realization that they’ve stopped. Because he stomped on his partner’s shoe. “No wonder you are parabatai. Good thing I’m such a patient teacher.”

Parabatai.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Jace couldn’t master a more intricate answer. He just stood there and let the warlock study his face. Something creased Magnus’s eyebrows, barely, but – there. Again, Jace was panicking. It almost felt like Magnus could see right through him, down to the most disgusting residue at the dark bottom of his soul; the part that looked past brotherhood and marital bonds and fantasized about kissing his parabatai’s husband not a minute ago.

Magnus blinked and swallowed, breaking the spell. “We’ll stop here today, all right?” He said tentatively before putting some much needed distance between them. “Pick it up at a later date.”

“Yeah.” Jace clenched his now-empty hands in fists by his thighs. He watched as Magnus waved the music silent and returned to his sit to tie the tie. Picking the food back up, he seemed absolutely unbothered and carried on with the same light friendly voice: “Thank you for feeding me.” His breathing was easy, no labor to it.

Jace nodded and finally moved from his stupor, drawing back strategically towards the exit. “No problem.”

Before he stepped outside, Magnus spoke again.

“Jace?” A pause, to allow for a head turn. “We’re family. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Jace gave a chopped nod and jumped out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SPOLERS AHEAD!** Additional warnings: Without malicious intent and by accident, Jace is experiencing an altered state of mind. Nothing happens to him during it (or because of it, for the whole duration, really), but it's obviously disturbing and confusing for him. AND US. A.k.a. one-sided Jace/Magnus. **END SPOILERS!**


	3. Jace 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get much worse before they get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sexual content, language, violence. Blood mentioned.
> 
> Sorry for disappearing, gentlewomen and otherwise. I went through a major depressive episode, which happens, in my condition. Luckily, it passes as it comes. Again and again. It's a living! 
> 
> Happy Mental Health Day and Coming Out Day. I love you all.

There was something atavistic in a simple way Isabelle caught him: an ambush, predator, pray.

“Here. I bought three more baby kugurumi for my unborn nibling. It’s extremely environmentally irresponsible, I can’t stop.” The amount of paper bags deposited into Jace’s care far surpassed three. “So, Clary’s worried, so Simon’s worried, so now I’m worried. For you.”

“What?!” Simultaneous with the spluttering, a thought flew into Jace’s surprised mind: Clary would’ve brought any concerns to him first. Right?..

“Relax,” Izzy eyerolled with her whole head, making the slick dark ponytail atop it swing. “She hasn’t said anything. Si felt unsettled through the bond and got all twitchy, and I drew the rest out under great duress.”

Jace did relax, but only a smidge. It was unwise to do so completely in Izzy’s presence. “Tell your nosy pet man-child to mind his own business.”

She sighed and looked at him all round-eyed and “I’m not mad, I’m disappointed”: “By the Angel, Jace. That’s so rude.”

“Shit. I know. I’m sorry.”

She slapped his ears and, holding his head between her hands, shook it a little. “You foul-mouthed pissy bonehead. I love you so much. Stop sulking. Talk to anyone you’d like, I don’t care. Just talk to someone if you need to. Okay?” He kept silent, enduring the mistreatment, so she repeated, louder: “Okay?!”

“Okay! Saints above, Izzy! I love you too, I’m fine!”

She smooched his forehead noisily and let go with a smug smile stretching her plum lips. Shoulders shifting to settle the gear back in place, Jace glanced around, but no one was in this part of the Institute to gawk. 

“We’re going drinking the weekend after next to send off your childless life, be aware,” Izzy announced. “I’m taking Clary on a spa trip before that, so you’ll have to wait.”

“Sure.” That sounded like fun.

Izzy turned around and started walking away, ruthlessly nailing the carpet with stilettos. “Your hair is all messed up, by the way! And there’s something on your forehead! Better fix that before the big boss notices!”

As she threw her head back and laughed at him flipping her off, all Jace could see was Izzy’s silhouette… and imagine the way it would look beside Magnus. The pair was very well-matched height-wise, fitted like puzzle pieces. Beautiful on the verge of their dance.

***

Soft quiet enveloped the bedroom, infusing the space with more intimacy. Before coming over to press their lips together, Clary left a slit in the curtains. Now, early evening light sliced through the air like a shard of yellow glass with glitters of dust trapped inside. Its reflections haloed Clary’s head in a fiery aureole: duller when she moved up, brighter when she came back down.

When her warm weight settled over Jace, he felt grounded and ready to fly both.

She has gotten him completely naked, but never managed to get there herself. A stretchy top still clang to her skin, tagged down one shoulder as far as the collar would go, uncovering the white bra that also stayed on. Her breasts grew in size and sensitivity in recent months, so excessive movement hurt without support. Jace’s hands were already waved away once, so he settled for looking rather than touching. Placed his palm higher instead, where Clary’s milky skin covered a delicate collarbone and seemed even smoother when verging the top’s fibrous fabric like this. His fingers could feel the perspiration gathered at the back of her neck, the rhythmical shift of her muscles.

The first proper moan she let past her sore-red lips made him properly shiver. Desperate attempts at controlling his body movements – up-up-up into that wet heat – worked only half the time, and Clary stopped to pet his sides and shoulders, shushing him again and again. He wanted to summon a whine, but it wouldn’t come, because Clary stole his breath away. He had his other hand on her thigh, and as it spasmed involuntarily, fingers digging into tender flesh, he worried about bruises he might have left behind.

“It’s good,” Clary whispered, propping herself over him, her hair falling around their faces – shelter from the outside world. “It’s good, leave it there- baby-”

Again, her nimble fingers soothed down his torso, leaving trails of molten pleasure behind. This time, though, something happened. A jolt shot through Jace, splitting reality like an image filtered through a kaleidoscope. He squeezed his eyes shut, confused with desire and this strange disbalance, until it hit him: Clary grazed his Parabatai rune, focusing the energy and his body’s attention on the bond. And it screeched, in its own way, like a microphone on an acoustic loop, too close to a speaker.

The intense feedback happened sometimes, when experiences on both ends coincided.

By the rosy spots high on Clary’s cheeks, Jace could tell she was getting close. The color grew to overtake her whole face; her knees squeezed his sides. She was taking him along, and it was a frustratingly mind-blowing train wreck he was helpless to stop with heat building between his legs. Intrusive data was coming through so vividly, neon bright, and Jace locked the circuit by letting himself go right back. When Clary tilted her face up and exposed her graceful neck – final stretch – Jace practically saw another body’s image overlayed atop her pale curves. Angular and tanner, unmarked with ink. He could place a surrogate touch on that golden skin; feel its expanse glide under not-his fingertips like a falling sheet of silk. Restraint now beyond reach, Jace pushed past haphazard attempts at shielding on the other side of the colorful glass shards overflowing, it seemed like, his whole head. Through wet, heavy breath he grasped to make the almost a certainty.

It started bones-deep, bloomed in the joints. Blindingly white pleasure overwhelmed him, reflecting there and back – a trip down a mirror corridor, inevitable, by this point, and bordering on too much. It amplified every spark, every honey-stretched second. In its wake, Jace was left gasping and catching blotches of burgundy in black nothingness behind his closed eyelids. The spinning rose window stopped, as if someone snapped the tube incasing it in half. His parabatai connection went dormant, back to its natural state.

Dread replaced pleasure as suddenly and sharply as the orgasm hit before it, and was just as all-encompassing. Jace opened his eyes to Clary’s dazed, oblivious smile. Hairs were stuck to her sweaty forehead, and she looked so alive. Glorious. She rose one final time, separating their bodies carefully, and Jace assisted her to his side without any thought or effort at all.

A shadow broke across the slit in curtains and soon overcame it entirely, until the light shards one by one fell away.

***

Alec awaited his arrival right by the Institute doors, a black-clad gargoyle of neutral expressions and mildly disheveled hair. Despite it, he appeared fresh: the Head’s ability to ward off five-o’clock shadow seemingly with willpower alone was unparalleled and legendary, a mystery even to Jace. 

“Good morning, big guy,” Jace greeted. His insides went cold with anxiety as his heart sunk. He didn’t slow down and snatched the potion mug out of Alec’s hands to drink on the go. “Lookie here, personal delivery.” The aim was to put yesterday’s incident behind them by pretending it never occurred, but he knew Alec too well. The dude was a bore and a drag and like a hellhound with a sinner’s soul right when it paid to back off.

“Come on, Jace,” he said, unpeeling from the wall to follow and habitually folding his hands on his lower back. “Don’t make it even more awkward. I already feel bad enough.”

“What.”

Alec was using normal volume and tempo, all poker-faced business: smart, no one paid them any mind that way. Head and his parabatai talking things over, as usual. “The incident. Last night. The sex incid-”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah! I know! You don’t have to delve into it.”

“Stop panicking. It’s not like it has never happened before.” Now that Jace got a reminder, it did. In different, more… solitary circumstances, of course – they were fourteen at the time (strange it hadn’t intersected more often, really). Alec had been so utterly mortified, he couldn’t look Jace in the eyes for days on end. Thank Raziel for spontaneous demon attacks bringing families together past pesky mishaps. “We’ve been warned, we prepared for this. It’s fine.” He was channeling persuasion at them both, not Jace alone.

“Absolutely,” Jace put as much stone-cold conviction in the statement as he could, even if he didn’t feel it. “You’re the one making a big deal.” He went to move away, but Alec stopped him by grabbing his arm.

“That’s not all.” As usual, when talking about really important things, he looked into distance from under a frown and rocked his head, barely noticeable. “Everyone’s on about how you’re acting weird, and I know it’s all my fault. I’m really sorry.”

“Once again. What.”

“Well, I mean. The bond. I’ve been negligent for the past couple of weeks. That’s why… yesterday. The barrier failed because I’ve been all over the place emotionally. As of late.”

Jace could not fucking believe his own ears.

“I had a fight with Magnus, prior to the mom thing. Serious topic. We’ve reached an agreement now, but. You know. One after the other. I guess it was too much for me to handle.” Misinterpreting Jace’s mortified silence, he forced eye contact and added: “I’ll do better, of course. Meditate. Train more. Work really helps, too.”

Jace’s whole face burned with embarrassment, but he knew it never showed and was grateful for it. Several nods were all he could manage. He lifted the mug and gulped the potion down in one long go, masking his lack of words. The delicious taste seemed soothing.

This was his brother. Yes, a drag and a bore, but also considerate, quick to accommodate the needs of others. Responsible. Shouldering the blame which belonged to Jace fully without a blink, but with ease and grace. Jace was the unstable one; he breached Clarissa’s privacy. He broke his brother’s trust on purpose, past the accidental, and was somehow now receiving apologies for it from said brother. 

“Here, I’ll wash this,” Alec sighed and took the mug back. “Let’s say we’re cool and leave it at that.”

It was official. Jace was the worst.

***

Jace has never been attracted to men. Neither romantically nor sexually. Smarts and funnies, charm and charisma had no corresponding effect when they belonged to a guy. Short or tall, fit or thin or fat, massive or petite left him indifferent on male physique. And he was one hundred percent sure of it. 

The fact got proven back in Jace’s teenage years, when the panic inside insisted he do anything – _anything_ – to make Lightwoods want to keep him. He used to pray to the angels every night and ask for love to bloom in his heart – the kind that would have matched Alec’s feelings. They were obvious, Alec too honest a person to hide such an enormous thing, never mind the constant desperate attempt. Every following morning Jace would stare, hopeful, into Alec’s eyes, until the boy stuttered and stalked away. Every morning, no result.

The saddest thing was, it had begun as a self-preservation technique, yes. But pretty quickly Jace’s concern had shifted to Alec’s happiness. Everything became for his sake after. Jace would’ve given a limb, two limbs, to make his brother happy. 

They’ve talked about it, of course, years later. With some demon hunting for social lubricant.

“I was so afraid,” Alec had been saying from the dark as they had weaved their way through an underground tunnel complex. “I can’t even recall now what of, but I was. I’m guessing, if I thought it through, I wouldn’t be; not as much. But I never let myself do it. And, well. Uncertainty, the great unknown, is way more terrifying than anything real. Plus, we were so sheltered. It was toxic. Maybe I subconsciously chose you as the safest object for my affection. Because deep down I always knew you’d never answer in like, and the status quo would be kept. Self-preservation, of sorts.” His silhouette, a denser shadow against the underground blackness, had been gliding between concrete pillars with lethal grace. “I’m so very sorry, Jace. For everything. I was so self-centered. Stewed inside my head, let my fears come between us. I couldn’t be near you, literally, when you needed me most. Needed a friend close to support you. I’m here now, though. Hope that counts."

Alec was so relieved with realization: fallen out of his disillusioned love, he could finally be a proper brother to Jace. That was how he explained it. And they’ve achieved real closeness since. Genuine intimacy.

Now, it seemed, Jace was busy retreating these same steps backwards. Till very recently, one thing was for certain: if he could ever fall in love with – or desire – a man, it would be Alec.

And yet.

Jace has caught enough snippets of Magnus through the years – situational nakedness and closeness out of necessity aside – to gain an impression of him as a sexual person. He’d seen marks on Alec’s body. Like colorful leaves for a fall bouquet, his memory now was gathering snippets: a caress, not meant to be caught by an outsider’s eye; a hurried shove of interruption, an escaped sound. Silent conversations. Finger running again and again over its owner’s lips pressed tightly together – anticipation. 

(Once, he had stopped unannounced by the apartment for Alec-fetching purposes ahead of the previously discussed time. No one had answered the door for a while, until, eventually, Magnus had let him in. The warlock had looked a minimally covered mess with beard burn bright on and around his mouth and black trails of melted mascara down his cheeks. As Jace had been faking blindness, Alec had come out jumping one-legged in an effort to dress himself. After blinking owlishly, he had, with all the tact at his disposal, suggested Magnus use a mirror.)

Jace sure as hell couldn’t embrace the idea of, for example, Simon even having genitals, but could easily visualize Magnus furiously jerking off in a shower, hot forehead to cool tiles. Or eating someone out. Or choking on a cock, to the point where hot tears wash the makeup down his face- 

Anyway.

Pure lust, Jace could handle. Every day tons of gorgeous women drew his attention, before those observations were swatted aside like bothersome flies. Wanting a man turned out to be not different from wanting a woman in the slightest, on a carnal level. And both should have been likewise irrelevant on all other levels, because Jace loved Clary.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t only… that.

Just like less platonic memories, the ones about Magnus as a friend gathered. Over the years, Jace nourished a deep respect for the warlock: as a diplomat and an activist, a politician, a fighter, a father. (Saints above, Jace really hoped to become half the father Magnus was.) He had saved lives of everyone Jace loved countless times over. Angel, he dragged Jace himself back from the dead just as often. Magnus was smart, funny, charming, charismatic. He was kind, strong, loyal. He had a spark inside, that very appealing flame of life, the likes of which drew Jace to Clary in the first place.

That. That right there was the problem.

***

The call came together with the old Morbier clock in the sun room announcing the witching hour. Three chimes echoed down the corridor towards the bedroom and reached it muffled. The phone, on the other hand, made no sound at all – Jace had put it on silent. Its screen blinked long flashes with Maryse’s portrait blindingly bright in the darkness. Lifeless electronic light spilt an eerie stain on Clary’s calm, slack face, so Jace slid from underneath the quilt in a hurry and left for his office.

“Maryse,” he greeted when the door made a soft click behind him.

Lately, for the last year or so, he’s been slipping here and there and calling her “mom”. A pause always followed, while she blinked, fast, and fidgeted, practically radiating happiness. Over the phone, there were always sharp breaths. It rung quiet now.

“Jonathan,” she said. “Excuse me. Were you asleep?”

No point in lying. “No.”

“Could we, perhaps, talk a while?”

“You wanted to talk so bad you called when you thought I’d be asleep?”

“I wanted to talk so bad I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. It’s been a week. ”

Jace pushed away from the door towards the fake fireplace to his right. The mantle hosted some photographs. One was of Clary and Maryse at El and Madzie’s joint Birthday party some years ago. He picked it up and stared down his mother’s beautiful strict face, her regal posture, the high knot of carefully arranged hair with white strands running through, crowning her head.

He’d asked for some time to cool off that night at the restaurant. A week.

“How’s Clarissa doing?”

“Look, M-m-m-” He sighed. “Look, mom. I’m angry with you.”

“I know, Jonathan.” Encouraged by the title, she sounded softer. “I wasn’t thi-”

“Not for the last time. Just, in general. I have a lot of anger towards you. Because of the past. I don’t know.”

There was bewilderment and aggressive weight to her voice: “I do _not_ like that.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not fun being constantly angry.” The photo frame made a click against the mantle’s stone surface. “Yet here we are.”

“How do you propose we move forward?”

To give credit where credit’s due, Maryse had never been prone to sulks and whining, like Robert was. Alec took after her in that regard: they both had their eye on the future, “target acquired” style, and concentrated on achieving their goals, or solving problems in a practical way. Alec got offset by inheriting the bare minimum of Robert’s dramatic flair, which helped him process feelings. Maryse had no such advantage; she was a dryer person, often straggling to reach across emotional abysses Alec hopped over. The time came full circle. Now mother learned from son, and mimicking his straightforwardness in matters of heart, the one she previously applied to matters of sword exclusively, became her technique of handling social distance.

Jace would have liked to encourage her initiative – positive reinforcement and all. But dull hopelessness was the one thing left inside his chest.

“I’m sorry, mom, but I don’t have a fucking clue. You’re asking the wrong guy here.” He’s been getting better with growing and healing, moving on (or so he had thought). But history showed: strategy has never been his strongest suit.

They soon parted with heavy souls and no decisions, the click of a disconnected call echoing Jace’s heart sinking. Old and worn thoughts, smooth stones polished by the sea of the mind, came nipping at his heals the moment mental shields weakened, like a virus overrunning a deteriorated immune system.

A silly cartoony face kept smiling at him the whole time, unperturbed, from where the sushi keychain dangled off the lamp.

He had never been a good child. How is he to become a good parent, then?

Back in their bedroom, Clary slept undisturbed, though that promised to not last long: under the blanket the baby was adjusting its position for a more comfortable one, the gentle movement raising the fabric. It knew not the discomforts this caused its mother. She would most likely blink awake in a moment to complain on behalf of her bladder and liver, but no real heat would back up the words. Clary loved their child already, and in this she wasn’t alone.

Steps completely silent, Jace crept closer and put a hand atop the bump. He kept the pressure gentle. Even so, the technique helped: his baby turned one final time – a fluid arc he could feel under his palm – and stilled, either too content to move or fast asleep. Clary’s face smoothed out immediately in response, eyebrows moving farther from each other. 

Their peace didn’t reach Jace, hadn’t blanketed him alongside his family. He felt unsure, dirty. All wrong. He almost didn’t grab a jacket on his way out in a useless hope the cold rain will wash some of the itch away.

***

Night suited Magnus the most. No doubt about that. Unashamed, it bejeweled the warlock’s surroundings by creating shimmering lights to match his disposition. With a black glittery robe parted and flowing behind as he stomped about, Magnus seemed akin to a giant bat. But not a scary vampire. One of the nectar-sipping ones.

“Don't worry, I wasn't sleeping,” he threw over the shoulder, dissolving, it seemed, into the dimness of the apartment.

Many books described the difference warlocks carried from all others: the marks, the absent bellybuttons, the slower heartbeats. Uneven, non-circadian sleep patterns surely got mentioned once or twice. It was unpleasant, though, recalling the old tomes and antiquated bestiaries that treated Jace’s friends and family members as monsters and objects. His mind turned to Alec’s words, instead: about how Magnus never really slept in the human sense of it, preferring a rather scattered nap schedule with an occasional narcoleptic week. Moon, tides, and celestial events held more power over his kind compared to the turn of night and day.

Jace sincerely wished he had said information in mind on the way over, to justify the visit, but the truth was, he simply wanted to be near Magnus. Needed it; craved with his very insides.

“Same, couldn’t sleep,” he replied seriously and took a step through the door. Ink-blue urban twilight stuffed the space to the brim, uninterrupted, which made sense: Max, still to a large degree a human child, retained his more mortal traits. El would be in the Institute alongside her father.

Jace and Magnus were, effectively, alone.

“I gathered as much! Come, let me find you a cure.”

The cozy light shone from the warlock’s office, reaching his late-night visitor, and threw an organza sheet of yellowish-orange reflects over the living room. The interior was familiar, as Jace had been graced with an invitation several times prior, but a sense of entering a sanctum suddenly became apparent, where before Jace just felt vaguely uncomfortable and rushed to leave.

Unlike the rest of the apartment, victim to frequent redecorating, the office stood unchanged: white-tiled operating theatre slash laboratory coolly gleamed to the right, separated off by a glass wall. The rest was less utilitarian and not as sanitary, clearly Magnus’s style. Dark wood, deep jewel tones, animal patterns, and gold accents covered a skeleton of loft industrialism like a finishing touch, beautiful flesh atop fine bone structure. The contrast between cold and warmth, between brick and a plush carpet, between powder-pink petals of peonies and concrete only hammered the point home. Something of Magnus’s own duality lingered in here.

A massive hearth stone, almost a pagan alter, occupied a corner beside Magnus’s desk, and on it in a wide copper fire bowl witch flames swayed slowly, steadily, like enchanted snakes. This constituted the main light source, with Magnus’s laptop being the other. It shared the table with a book stand – a host for an ancient-looking folio – and several modern thesauruses, all haphazardly abandoned, their pages weighted down by a bizzare assortment: an ornate magnifier, a yad, a red-stained letter knife…

“Watcha working on,” Jace called out with a dry throat, trying for casual, but failing. That specific smell, the one he became hyper-focused on recently, grew really strong here. It might have been a goblet heaping with olibanum grains, visible on a nearby carved table. Or bouquets of herbs, hang to dry beneath the high ceiling, fireflies of leftover magic dancing between leaves. Maybe a sandalwood sachet. On closer inspection, Jace discovered, it was all three… and neither. The fragrance included everything in the room combining; points separated by time and space that the owner brought together to weave into one heady shawl. No wonder Max’s potion _tasted_ of this place. He most likely prepared it in here, using his father’s ingredients.

Magnus’s voice came from in-between the numerous shelves, reaching through books and jars alike. “Translation for a client. He’s under the impression it's a wise ancient text, but it's just ancient porn, I’m afraid. Or delighted,” he emerged with a vial in hand, attention fully on its label. “It’s pretty well-written. Demands some of my blood every night to reveal itself, though.”

“You're translating an ancient text with Google Translate?” Jace could see its interface on the laptop’s monitor from the guest chair he picked.

The warlock just laughed light-heartedly, lowering the vial on the desktop, and waved: “Take your jacket off, it’s all wet. I’ll crank the fire up, it’ll be hot in here soon enough.” True to his word, the flames rose steadily higher. Waist up, there was nothing under Magnus’s open robe except for an expanse of golden skin, one small brown nipple visible at the very edge of the black silk. Jace made his glance lick up, towards a tiny glitter dot on warlock’s collarbone, and Magnus seemed to shiver under such scrutiny.

“It’s hot enough in here as is,” Jace said. No chuckling, no flirty rebuttal followed. A realization came during his battle with the jacket: he forgot to drizzle the sentence with a leering syrup of bluff, and the resulting statement felt vulnerably obvious. Too late now. Jace could not be bothered to try and rectify it.

“Right,” Magnus accepted the jacket with flourish, but the usual fluidity of his hands came off forced. He turned and strolled away to deposit the clothes on a drying rack. When he returned, his robe was wrapped around him snuggly, tied up. He wouldn’t meet Jace’s eyes. “I’ll just add a dash of eclipse sugar to the elixir, and it’ll be good to go. Want some herbal tea? Anything else would be unwise, I think.”

Unwise. Current situation made Jace feel drunk enough already, without any alcohol; excited, without caffeine. The surrounding scent poured into him, turning his legs heavy, lighting a sweet, pulsing ache between them. Eclipse sugar came in coarse golden shards of splintered crystal. It would feel unfairly sharp – another contrast – against Magnus’s pink tongue. There would be no other choice but to chase it with his own, until all harsh edges dissolve into the sticky kiss-

“Yeah, so, Google Translate?”

“There's this word in the text – only one relatively modern language has direct translation,” Magnus drew back – no other term to describe it – towards the shelves and started rummaging around. “I'm trying to come up with a stand-in.”

“What's the word?” This time, Jace applied an explicit effort to sound nonchalant, even as he rose and took a step closer right after in direct contradiction.

Magnus hummed, distracted. “Mamihlapinatapai.” 

“What does that mean.”

The warlock’s shoulders twitched – Jace’s voice came from a much closer distance – and he spun around to discover himself almost cornered. Golden eyes went wide, just a smidge, pupils dilating. They always looked fetching when dark, and how amazing would it be to turn them so with excitement and not glamour?

“Um…”

“No, really, I’m interested.”

Part of Jace registered the confused mask Magnus’s face morphed into, but the rest felt hypnotized. The shadows the witch fire cast were rhythmically dancing, deepening the trance. Magnus’s lips had overtaken Jace’s attention. They moved with the answer: “A feeling when both earn for something to happen, but neither is willing to risk the first step.”

They locked eyes. They were so close. So _close_. 

Jace made sure to drop all pretenses, stating under his breath: “I know the feeling.” 

Beneath his fingers, silk suddenly squeaked from the strength of the grip, and the warlock looked down at Jace’s fist grabbing his robe’s lapel. The dancing light reflected off a photo frame on the shelf, previously obscured from view. It was El’s photo. Not of her, but hers: from the period when she evaded getting any pictures taken unless pressured into it, preferring to be the one capturing various moments. Two years ago she requested everyone dispose of as much old depictions of her as possible and restrain from displaying leftovers. Jace found a snap in the depth of his phone: his niece at seven or eight, a grumpy child in a cute miniature tuxedo. He kept it for sentimental reasons, but changed her contact’s icon. Magnus and Alec had every single incriminating frame replaced by one of El’s authorship. This particular photo was taken at El’s fourteenth birthday party, and had Jace himself, Izzy, and Max smiling over cake plates in it.

His own face worked like a dash of cold water. Jace released the grip he had on his _brother-in-law_ , by the Angel, and stepped away. Stepped away against everything roiling inside, feelings like heavy hot boulders. The buzzing in his ears could only be rivaled by the sluggishness between them.

“I better get home,” he whispered. “I don’t feel well.’

“I can see that,” Magnus answered cautiously. “I am going to make you a portal.”

“No, please, I-” The warlock was really- Really- Just, too much. “I need the walk.”

“We’ll share it, then. There’s no way I’m leaving you alone in such a state.”

Jace sighed. “I don’t want to talk, Magnus.”

Magnus’s face turned hard. “Tough luck. You can have a breather while we walk, but you’re telling me everything after.”

Imagination practically collapsing with an attempt to imagine _that_ conversation, Jace squeezed his eyes shut. He was doomed.

***

Turns out, no worries were needed, because they never made it home.

With gothic arches and openwork cable fans of Brooklyn Bridge behind, Jace dared not raise his eyes from the streetlight spill on the pavement. Magnus’s heels sounded crisply against it, louder than the endless cars flashing by. Fall wind helped disperse the booming toll in Jace’s head, but… Tension floated pungent on chill air, well-deserved; so much so, that he hadn’t noticed, at first, it growing larger, surpassing the boundaries of social anxiety.

His Nephilim premonition was pinging.

Certain types of demons preferred particular victims to simpler mindless destruction: some attacked exclusively vampires, many limited themselves to werewolves – strong sources of life force. Devoratrix demons had their countless puss-crusted eyes on warlocks, and very little could distract the fuckers. 

“I can make a portal, still!” Magnus whisper-cried under Jace’s arm that kept him pressed into a side of a waste container. Darkness dominated the alley, but the warlock’s reflective eyes shone – two moonstones. He dropped the glamour, which had attracted devoratrix in the first place, to remain hidden.

“And what?!” Jace argued back. “It’ll be on your trace immediately and follow you through. I’ll deal with it, it’ll only take, like, a second-”

Now Magnus was the one to clench Jace's lapel: “No way, Jonathan, you know how powerful a devoratrix is! We need backup! Or let me assist you, at least!”

Even nodding in agreement, Jace had zero intention to comply. No backup would reach them in time: sooner or later Magnus’s magic was bound to peak, revealing their location. It would resonate with a ley line, or awaken someone’s wards. Magnus also couldn’t aid in the oncoming fight – a devoratrix would quite literally devour warlock magical energy in every form, hence the name. So, the situation boiled down to a one-on-one fight, as it was supposed to be since the first Ascension. Shadowhunter versus demon. 

Jace and Alec worked out a protocol for circumstances like these ages ago. They were _parabatai_ and shared a clear set of priorities. Family came first. It was possible to go on with your parabatai’s spouse and kids despising you; it was more difficult to exist separated from your parabatai by hatred. Theirs was dangerous work. Besides, children lost parents all over the world every day – and, on most occasions, they healed. Widowed partners had memories to eventually smile back on. All of them went on living, healthy and safe. Everything besides was meaningless dust.

So, Jace acted accordingly. And it unraveled exactly as expected. Magical attacks proved useless, which held Magnus at bay – he was smart enough and kept on the periphery to give Jace sufficient space. The demon spread its rancid stench as it slithered, the screech of its claws as disgusting as its growls. Its want for Magnus’s essence was a white-out almost as bright as Jace’s sword. The blade, practically a blood-brother by this point, felt divine in Jace’s grip. It sliced the night air and went were it was led – to carve a victory.

The sword did manage to succeed in that regard, but not before devoratrix carved a nice piece out of Jace’s torso as payback.

To never know a father and mourn him in a distant, hero-worship way was probably better than to get torn apart after years by each other’s side. Right?

Everything appeared orange and black: the city’s mosaic, the sky; maroon absent even from the pooling blood. No stars and no moon witnessed as numbness chased pain up and out of Jace’s body. Another streetlight bit into his pupils, the only eye in the sky. Cold faded away along with the frosted grain of tarmac under spasming fingertips. Only a vague warmth lingered.

“You absolute daft buffoon, how dare you do this! There’s blood on my favorite pants, and you got it there, Herondale! You will pay! And an oath to a warlock is forever, so no dying until your debt is satisfied.”

Magnus was moving again; always moving. Hands, aglow with blue, dove in and out of Jace’s vision. A handsome face hovered, pale, eyes big – but no tears in them. Good.

“Magnus,” Jace spat out with some blood. He tried to command his own hands to move, to grab at warlock, but he wasn’t sure if he failed or not. “Magnus.”

“You are interfering with me healing you, stop that.”

“Magnus.”

“What.”

The warlock didn’t want to listen, because it would make the whole thing real. This stupid night, and the cold ground, and a torn up dead-end – ha! – alley. That, Jace knew.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Don’t tell Clary. Kiss me. Instead.”

Magnus froze. Magnus blinked. Reality started flickering, becoming choppy, like a zoetrope animation. Magnus moved the same way, his face getting closer in increments, as if someone cut frames out from the film.

Gentle pressure covered Jace’s lips.

Everything was orange and black. Clary’s hair and Magnus’s hair, braided together.


	4. Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's alive!
> 
> This chapter, more Bad Spanish™:  
> Si muero, ¿por favor no me odies? - If I die, please don't hate me?  
> Nunca. - Never.
> 
>  **Regarding the work's name:** In Greek mythology, the Shirt of Nessus was the poisoned shirt that killed Heracles. Fearing that Heracles has fallen out of love with her, his wife Deianeira gives him the "shirt" (actually a chiton), which was stained with the blood of the centaur Nessus. She had been tricked by the dying Nessus into believing it would serve as a potion to ensure her husband's faithfulness. In fact, it contained the venom of the Lernaean Hydra with which Heracles had poisoned the arrow he used to kill Nessus. When Heracles puts it on, the Hydra's venom begins to cook him alive.  
>  Geddit. GEDDIT.

Magnus never knew one could hate a section of space… until he did. He positively hated the sixteen feet of corridor he paced – with venomous passion, from his very soul. The barrack feel of it, stripped of any individuality; the never-quite-clean carpeting, flattened and grey-tinted in the center where most steps hit; the lacquer peeling from wooden paneling; the frames and candelabras, polished by recruits regularly but still covered with a layer of dust. Everything gave away the un-homeliness of the Institute many called home anyway.

He hated the row of waiting chairs above all else.

Facing them, smack in the middle of the hallway, stood the doors to the infirmary. Generous portion of Magnus’s life got shaved away before their swaying double-leaves by the wait for a proclaimed verdict: on his husband, his brothers and sisters, his _child_. There were plenty of years to give, a bottomless vault, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. 

He sighed, bringing his pacing to a halt, and made himself take a despised sit. Haphazard mixture of miscellaneous magics permeating the walls, the way they resonated with the ley knot under the foundation… It made him jittery. He needed a distraction; how lucky, then, that the mind can escape many cages and hells given sufficient archives and concentration.

Numerous memories had been ingrained into Magnus’s essence over the years, always fresh in his mind’s eye and saturated with detail – as if the events had just transpired, and not a minute flew by since. His stepfather’s hands on his throat like vices. The magnificent cacophony of symptoms when he had awoken to his very first hangover. Ragnor, debuting his laugh in Magnus’s presence. Catharina, debuting her tears. The Swan Lake premier. A blue stripe torn away from Dutch flag to turn it a glorious red-and-white. The way Etta’s fingers used to run along a microphone cord to straighten it. Alec’s expression as he had come undone above Magnus for the first time. Max Michael’s blood, dripping down his tiny face after a run-in with a wall. The skirt of El’s dress fluttering while she had span in an attempt to check for any ichor stains from a recent slay.

Those two last ones were especially vivid. The dread he experienced upon seeing his child hurt could only measure up to the exaltation of witnessing his child’s happiness.

He got no warning both times fatherhood ambushed him, and thus escaped stewing in fear prior to the fact. Even though an influx of anxieties came soon, those were practical, everyday life worries. He hadn’t been bouncing off the walls, lost in hypothetical scenarios, and later had no time to indulge.

Experiences varied, though; and for Jonathan, Magnus had to keep reminding himself, everything was different.

Because that’s what was going on. Right? Existential dread. Mid-life crisis. Cold feet. Could cold feet even be caused by an impending baby? The concept seemed rather irresponsible to Magnus, and, as such, was probably a frequent occurrence. On the other hand… autumnal equinox, full moon, and Giacobinids all had just come and went in a span of two weeks. Such intense disturbance tended to fray twitchy Nephilim at their proper snobby seams, even if they stayed blind to the fact in their ignorance. Could be that.

But Magnus doubted it.

He came to enjoy antagonizing Jace (and getting as good as he gave) during their acquaintance, especially after real tension had shifted towards harmless fun. Truth be told. But if the man wanted a respite from all the poison, a maternity leave of sorts, Magnus would – and did – gladly oblige. And to what avail? He never intended for their interactions to turn flirty. Well, they were always somewhat playful, but. _Flirty_ flirty. Situations where a partner’s sibling lusted over Magnus had occurred before – obviously – but those occasions never involved kids, and the partner in question wasn’t the love of Magnus’s life. Sometimes, deep into a bout of insomnia when darkest fears came up to vent, he fretted that a horrible, mindless drunken mistake could accidentally happen; sure. But it was always dearest Isabelle in this nightmare scenario, with whom Magnus shared a tender camaraderie, and never… blegh, Jace. 

Magnus gently pushed against familiar springiness of the wards with his own energy over and over in a nervous tick. The whole Jace ordeal seemed very unfortunate. More and more so with every passing second. Hecate damn it all to a cozy hell dimension.

“Jonathan Herondale’s now conscious,” one of the healers announced, suddenly appearing in the doorway. Magnus sagged, reassured and happy to be spared from the corridor of doom once more. The healer was a Fae parted from Summer Court on internship to study interspecies medicine. After the injured arrived in a swoosh of portal-raised wind and someone wheeled Jace off to get stitched back together, he fed Magnus two protein bars to battle magic depletion. Alec praised the guy here and there over dinner in that endearingly parsimonious way of his. Magnus had forgotten the name, though – and no wonder, after a night he’d had!

“Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.” He manipulated away from the name situation by pressing a fist to his chest. Shadowhunters might stay oblivious to the finer intricacies of proper Fae etiquette, but Magnus wasn’t, and it never hurt to get your relatives on the Court’s good side. “The whole family is grateful.” According to a quick rundown, the team had to stabilize Jace, replenish blood, regrow some organs…

The Fae inclined his head, accepting fairly earned praise. “Would you like to see him?”

“Please.”

They marched past several healers attending to sprains and graze wounds. The part of infirmary dedicated to severely injured hid behind shoji separators and a noise-muffling barrier. There was a small utilitarian mirror above a corresponding sink in the corner just inside. Momentarily, Magnus caught his own reflection’s eye and bristled: his mouth and chin were rusty red, covered in flaking blood. Oh, sure. Because he kissed Jace in his last moments, fulfilling his final request.

That… happened. How long had he sat in that fucking corridor with incriminating evidence literally all over his face for anyone to see? Shit. 

A simple finger snap took care of the mess, and Magnus turned away. 

His nincompoop of a brother-in-law, the sole ICU patient, was rendered so pale with blood loss, he appeared one with the surrounding crumpled sheets. Active healing runes above the bed – strong, well-weaved magic – and the light from assorted monitors added a lovely periwinkle hue to the sickly picture. Jonathan had always reminded Magnus of Archangel Gabriel in various Annunciation paintings he’d scrutinized during his very first visit to Habsburg Spain. European art had appeared alien to his eye at the time, and, as a result, the god’s messenger wrought in golden hues had seemed perplexing. Magnus had been able to tell he was supposed to find the figure awe-inspiring and stunning, had even been able to appreciate the technique of strokes applied as something exquisite, but all the pale cream had not managed to touch his soul – too strange, too anemic.

“So, not dead, then,” Jace croaked, cracking open one stormy-blue eye. There were lilac crescents underneath both.

“Want me to help you along?!” Magnus asked in a subdued shout. He marched to Jace’s bed and gripped the rail of its footboard so hard, his rings clanged against the metal and knuckles turned white. All questions regarding physical state were held back: Jace could hardly add to what was already in the healers’ report. “Don’t you dare put me in a position where I have to bring Clarissa _the news_!”

“Stop screaming,” the Shadowhunter begged, covering his gormless face with the forearm free from an IV line. “I just got devoratrixed. Devorated? Devoratrixated?” He sounded soft and resigned, exactly like he did back in the alley of What The Actual Fuck. “Have you told her?..”

“That you’re here? No. I know biscuit won’t appreciate being kept in the dark, but. Your continued survival quickly became a certainty, and I decided to wait for a more reasonable hour; or till you wake, at least. I’ll send a fire message no-”

“I meant the other… stuff.”

Magnus dropped the irritated tone in favor of sincere concern. “Jonathan. What’s going on?” No reaction. “Look at me, please. I haven’t said anything. Talk to me. I’ll listen this time, I promise. No laughing, no diminishing your feelings. I won’t threaten you with Clary anymore.”

Jace peeked out, wary, shadow half down his nose. He seemed legitimately torn.

“It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing. You asked me to kiss you. You told me you love me!”

“Wow.” Magnus jumped a foot as pale Alexander materialized right beside him. Hazel eyes were fixed on his wounded parabatai, skipping feverishly from one feature to the next. Alec’s suit was impeccable, a front of usual equanimity still up, but the very surrounding air almost crackled, charged with tangible worry. “You must be feeling a lot better already. To be back on this new thing you guys got going on.”

Magnus, heart beating wildly in his throat, hadn’t even begun to consider the implications of what went down and the consequences it would drag on its tail. Ridiculous thoughts crept in. What would hypothetically anger Alexander more: Jace making advances towards Magnus, or Magnus managing (however unintentionally) to achieve something Alec himself failed at so many years ago? As a person, the man grew ways past that unfortunate mess; but subconscious mind could be a tricky little bugger. 

Inside, in an intuitive place where Magnus hadn’t really believed Jace would die tonight, he also didn’t believe the genuineness of the feelings professed. Something else must have caused this disaster; one of the theories that came into shape before. Emotional confusion.

Magnus didn’t even want to start tackling the Clarissa element of the equation.

“Do not!” Alec was at Jace’s side as if portaled over, large hands pressing his brother’s shoulders down firmly. “Don’t try to move. I can tell how bad it is. Felt you go down at the start of the fucking meeting.” His voice dropped along with his forehead, which connected with Jace’s sweaty one in a reassuring caress. Oh, yes, – negotiations for impending mass migration of werewolves upstate. “Couldn’t get out sooner. It was important. Well, you’re aware. Sorry.” He ignored the slightly stunned, caught-in-the-act silence (which didn’t prevent Jace from melting into the touch). “What got you?”

“A devoratrix.”

Alec shot up, one hand still on Jace, the other outstretched into the room, towards Magnus. His voice jumped an octave while he gave his husband the same concerned visual examination from earlier: “Are you alright?!” 

“Yes, naturally. Never better.” Magnus relented and took a step closer so that Alec could touch him and Jace simultaneously without compromising. In previous instances they had played a harmless tug-a-war game from two opposite locations in the infirmary, manipulating Alec with groans of pain and lovingly sharing resulting amusement at him running around the room without realizing it. Now was not the time. Magnus gladly yielded a limb for his husband’s emotional comfort. It must have been devastating, worrying through the meeting without the ability to express it or receive any updates. Alec’s fingers around Magnus’s palm were almost feverishly hot, squeezing a tad too tight.

“He wasn’t joking around, you know,” Jace proclaimed suddenly, before a word could be uttered further. He looked up at confused Alec with big wet eyes of a lost child. “Magnus. He’s telling the truth. I asked him to kiss me.”

“Now, wait a minute-” Magnus started, just to be ignored.

“I’m in love with your husband.”

The silence rung as no one moved or, it seemed, breathed. Finally, Alec let Magnus go to pat Jace’s shoulder with the freed hand. “Oh, wow, okay, buddy.” He raised his face, round-eyed, wrinkles forming a field of worry on his forehead. “So, what are we thinking? A curse? A love spell?”

Relief, the likes of which he rarely experienced, descended to envelope Magnus in its warm embrace. Again, he sagged, as the compensating joy flooded in. “Stars above, of course that’s what it is!”

Obviously, a mind-altering manipulation! He guessed right: Jace’s state was that of an emotional confusion, but not caused by anxieties of parenthood – rather, outside forces were at play! It would have become obvious sooner, were the topic not so uncomfortable to mull over. If two-weeks-ago Magnus met face-to-face with now-Jace, he would’ve, no doubt, noticed the alarmingly stark difference straight away. As is, everything happened gradually, and Magnus’s perception adjusted.

Alexander, who was closely studying his reaction, demanded: “What, don’t tell me you thought it was genuine?”

“Well, you can’t blame me, it’s not like similar conundrums had never happened to me before!”

“What am I saying,” Alec gave a long-suffering sigh, “of course it had happened to you before.”

“Don’t speak like I’m not here, it’s very irritating,” Jace interrupted.

“Jace,” his parabatai returned to him. He took a deep breath, apologetic, and declared with all possible conviction: “Brother. Listen. No offense, but… you’re straight.”

Talk about cringe-worthy. Magnus admired Alexander’s straightforwardness, even bluntness, but the most appealing part of those qualities was how the man learned to tether them through the years – to his great political advantage. Sometimes, though, with family especially, Alec slipped. Ways to go, yet. It was fortunate Magnus stayed by his side, gladly playing occasional Alec-to-world translator to rectify similar situations. 

“What Alexander is trying to say, I believe,” he hurried to add, “is that sexuality is fluid and can change throughout a person’s life. Also, not all men who are attracted to women are straight, present company included. And if you ever came out to Alec with such statement in different circumstances, he would respect it and be a supportive parabatai.” People thought this mystified status granted a pair full understanding; how foolish. It aided communication, but communication still remained a necessity. “It’s just… you haven’t been yourself, as of late.”

“Yeah. That.”

“I get it, I get it, yeah-yeah.”

“You must admit, it does sound pretty artificial.”

“Feels real enough,” Jace grunted. He looked miserable, like the words pained him, and avoided looking at his visitors directly.

“I know. Fake love would.” Magnus tried to make his compassion obvious with a soft voice. “Let’s think rationally. Tell me: how did it happen? When? Was it a sudden comprehension of something that gradually grew over time and turned out to have been there all along? Or was it very distinctive, like someone flipping a switch?”

Jace stayed silent for a while, thinking, then squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them with his fingers. “I catch your meaning, yes. And it’s the second one. Distinctive. The day after the restaurant, at your place.”

Magnus hummed, mind abuzz. “Indeed. Visual trigger. So I figured.” At first glance, the blame belonged with selkies – their kind were keepers to powerful love spells. But the timing was all skewed, nothing lined up. “Prior to that night, what Downworlders have you interacted with? Fae? Dryads? Or- Those Mavkas! Were you assigned to their case?” Four winds forbid you remind any creature from Volyn region of a lost loved one.

Jace shook his head no. “I’ve only had the time to talk to Institute personnel.”

“All meetings with representatives were scheduled towards the start of my shift,” Alec explained.

“Have you visited the vaults? The library? Touched anything, no matter how innocuous, there? Or did you maybe receive a present recently?” Negative again. “Think, Jonathan. It would be a small plain trinket, but for some reason you would be unable to put it down. Like it calls to you.” Nothing. “Have you sampled a foreign dish or added something new to your diet?”

“I’ve been surviving on Clary’s antiemetic rice cakes, to be honest.”

If Jonathan’s state was triggered by a tangible object or a substance, they could consider themselves lucky. Unfortunately, mind-altering magic came in many forms. Curses, spells, and hexes aside, trespassing on a forgotten sacred ground under an ancient spirit’s protection could cause such state. A ghost could have attached itself to Jace’s soul. This last option would be the worst, and a pain in the ass to get rid of. Magnus really hoped for anything else. A headache crawled behind his left eye, drilling its ice-cold pinpricks into the socket. Catarina. He needed Catarina. Their combined talents would be required to analyze a Nephilim’s ailing mind properly: Magnus’s own technically Nephilim strength to power through, and Catarina’s extensive healing abilities to scrutinize even the most fleeting detail. From there, a course of action could be determined-

“Uncle Jace!”

It was distressing, seeing his children in the infirmary, even when the worry had no logical foundation. The barrier around ICU muted magical signatures, hence the surprise appearance. As El’s long legs ate up the distance from the shoji to Jace’s bed and Max struggled to keep up, Magnus gave the two a quick diagnostic swipe – pure prophylactics. Both registered as healthy, if a little tired on El’s part. Specific spells he had placed on the kids would inform him of any injury, he realized that. In his head. The heart was another matter altogether.

El still carried her weapons and leathers, but the tight braid she favored for work started relaxing into a fuzzy mess. Several strands lay flat to her temples, plastered there at some point during the night by now-dried sweat. Magnus could see an Agility rune under her chin. As for Max, his disguised face remained sleep-puffy – it always did at such an early hour – and soft-looking. Underneath a camo hoodie, judging by all the wrinkles, hid the t-shirt he slept in. 

“Everything in order?” Alexander demanded from their daughter – in the moment, more a leader than a father.

“Erm, no?! Uncle’s down? Max came by with your potion to take us home, maybe get some breakfast to bring back for Ayah, and next thing we know they tell us- this!” She gestured at the cot and the healing runes, and only then noticed Magnus – to her apparent confusion. “Oh! Ayah’s also here?”

“I thought you were back at home, sleeping,” Max frowned. So young. He was still so young. The way his distressed voice sounded, high and tense. The way he clutched the potion mug like a shield in front of himself – that thing sure got a lot of use recently; before, it had been gathering dust in the kitchen cupboard for over half a year. Jace drew several reassuring circles between his nephew’s shoulder blades with a palm.

“It’s a long story,” Magnus said in a light yet final way. El, having explored Jace’s heart monitor to her satisfaction, came away for a kiss. She raised her eyebrows at the words in exact copy of Alexander’s patent expression.

“And I’m all in one piece now,” Jace added.

“But could probably still. You know. Use a booster,” Alec announced gravely. “Why don’t we give your potion to Uncle Jace? Just this once. Huh? Max Michael.”

Max froze. “What?! Why?!”

“Well. He’s injured. And he’s a boy. All pre-requisites met. Shouldn’t be a problem. Right?”

Magnus glared at Alec’s continuously weird, stern tone. The last thing they needed was for Max to be turned off from practicing again. He had only just picked the craft back up – for the first time in two years! Mindless warlock cantrips aside, the kid hadn’t created anything elaborate or of his own authorship… probably ever? It was such joy to enter the office and see a meticulously tidied up working surface, brass bowls still wet and Bunsen burner carefully tucked away onto a wrong shelf, magic mixed with herbal bitterness still in the air. If Magnus made a gargantuan effort to contain his excitement, Alec could likewise participate. Their little Blueberry was finally coming into his own. Paternal duty demanded subtle support with even more added stealth amending for early teenage behavior.

Before Magnus reached for his “parental differences alert” cough, though, something very strange happened.

“No way!” Max exclaimed. “It’s just for you!”

Alec stood taller, stance wide – almost menacing, – and crossed his arms. “Well, go on and do it anyway. I couldn’t stomach it. Too sweet, you see. So we’ve been giving your potion to Uncle Jace from the very beginning.”

After this declaration the glamour flew off of Max in one blink, which never really happened anymore. Not since he turned twelve, certainly. Maybe even prior. The spell would malfunction at times, leave the wearer looking motley. But this?

…and then it clicked.

Max, stark blue and scared, tried to hide the mug behind his back, but Magnus needed only a snap of a finger to summon it. The lid creaked under the force with which it got turned, stuck a bit to the container by a dried overspill in the spiral. When Magnus managed to pry the thing open, a long-ago learned and since forgotten smell hit first: pink yarrow, sandalwood leaves, ground calcite. He put his finger in the green sludge to bring some to his mouth. As expected, it tasted how his pillowcase, his walk-in closet, a shirt he wore for a night smelled, but amplified.

“Max Michael,” Magnus growled, hand shaking, “are you out of your beautiful blue mind?!”

The kid’s face went nearly grey and he flinched simultaneously with Jace. Dark blue eyes were jumping from one father to the other, while Rafaela looked completely lost beside him: “What’s going on?”

“Your brother had a genius idea to brew a love potion,” Alexander explained. Again he subverted expectations, calmer now that everything was out in the open. “Which violates the Accords in a serious w-”

“The Accords? The Accords?! Fuck the Accords!” Manus exploded, completely ignoring Alec’s distasteful frown at the cussing. A hot sea hissed in his ears. “This is unethical! Immoral! Opposite to everything I have taught you! I _know_ you know better!”

In contrast with what everybody liked to assume, both Alexander _and_ Magnus were quite stern parents – in dissimilar, complimentary ways that provided cover for each other’s unnecessarily soft spots. For a specialized case like this one Lightwood-Banes had the “like handles like” policy. Alec pulled rank all over Rafaela when it came to Shadowhunter business, and Magnus never interfered with the decision-making much. Yes, he lived alongside Shadowhunters and thus took part in their culture, but it didn’t make him one. He would never comprehend the elusive cliques and their internal policies: Academy graduates vs. Institute-schooled; born vs. Ascended… That came from living the life. Likewise, for example, Alexander would never understand why a wedding without jasmine was not a proper wedding, not really. Why was it not appropriate to ask a warlock to reveal their Mark. He wouldn’t do it, not anymore; not after exploring the historical context. Regardless, the visceral comprehension of the taboo’s cause could never be gained through anything but birth. Render unto Caesar, and so forth.

Magnus got on wonderfully with Max on a day-to-day basis, but when magic was involved… he held his son to a much higher standard compared to others, even Madzie. Because the boy enjoyed greater opportunities in life. He had at his disposal, well, anything a young warlock could ever require. Including having received an in-depth education on the morality, ethics, and safety of using magic.

Screaming, Magnus had to remind himself, was unproductive. He needed to explain. Again.

“Mind-altering is just a milder term for mind rape!” If Max was old enough to brew love potions, he was old enough to handle the cruder form of bitter truth. Maybe the words would stick better like that. “This,” Magnus pointed at Jace, “ends in bodily harm, violence, sexual violence! Trauma!”

“I didn’t mean for Uncle Jace to have it!”

“Ah, so what, mind violation is alright when it’s your own father?!”

Alexander shuffled his feet through the painful pause, clearly uncomfortable. He despised voluminous conflicts in the household, no matter how warranted.

“Max Michael, listen to me.” Magnus declared, firm. The boy swallowed silent tears, obeying, and the sight had more effect than Magnus cared to show. “I thought it got proven over the years, but evidently I’m wrong. So, here. Your father and I will always love you. We will always be your family. We are your parents forever, be it together, or separately. But you have no say in our personal relationship as such. And I hope you know that I would rather mourn your father leaving me on his own free will than indulge his presence by my side without it.”

There was nothing to add, really. Again, Alexander stood torn between squeezing Magnus’s shoulder, which danced up and down with deep rushed breaths, and Max’s shaking hand; he judged the atmosphere too raw yet for a hug.

Rafaela, frozen slightly aside, demanded incredulously: “All this because of the stupid fight? But dads _do_ fight, Maxie! Like, reasonably often. This one didn’t even last long, it wasn’t super serious! And you kept on brewing the potion for days!” 

Max’s bloodless face flushed all the way to deep, bruised navy with two mauve spots high on his cheeks. “They’ve only made up after Dad drunk it!” His defense sounded pained; it was clear the boy saw no other course of action for his past self, no choice. Fixing the situation meant the world to him, meant “saving his family” – heartbreaking, if one cared to dwell on such morbid thought long enough.

“What are you talking about?” Rafaela huffed, not sufficiently perceptive in her youth to notice the full range of her brother’s distress. “They’ve been made up since the morning of, or the previous night or whatever! Weren’t you there when Ayah strolled out of the guestroom?”

“What?! No!”

A pang of guilt – Magnus turned to Alexander, who was already looking back in reflected unease. They had fucked up, the kid fucked up – what a clusterfuck in general. Lightwood-Bane parenting style as of late could use more discretion, maybe. Or, conversely, more honesty in a form of detailed explanations? A promise to never fight? That would be irresponsible and dismissive, like a promise to always be safe and never die. Either way: punishment needed to come before reassurances, even though both definitely would happen. The fear caused such misbehavior in the first place, the fear Magnus never realized his son still harbored. Also, obviously, miscommunication… 

Nothing like the harsh truth from the mouths of babes to shatter any misconceptions of grandeur.

“Okay, but they called me “El”! You should’ve noticed that! When they’re fighting or angry they always call me “Rafaela”. Don’t they call you “Max Michael” when you do stupid shit or something?”

“Yes, they do call me that – all the time!”

“That’s ‘cause you’re always up to some stupid shit, then!”

“Enough!” Magnus barked, interrupting them. “Soldier, escort the culprit to Juvenile Crime, please.”

Both his children outright gawked. Rafaela came to first. “Ayah…” She whispered, unsure, glance sliding towards Alec.

“Do not look at him,” Magnus warned. “Look at me. I’m the High Warlock, and, when it comes to my people, I’m the authority here. Now do your job, and escort the culprit out. When done, await further instructions.”

Max was full-on crying now, and to follow suit didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Magnus stayed put. He had not wrestled such a significant victory – the separation of juvenile justice and court for Downworlder children (Shadowhunter children next) – from the Clave’s claws just to never use its advantages. Or betray the system with nepotism and bias. It was nice enough in Juvenile Crime department, more a community center than a precinct with a jail cell. No cages or isolated interrogation rooms, just cubicles. Max would survive.

Rafaela felt Magnus’s determination and stiffened, shifting out of her “older sister” persona into a gentle but unyielding professional. “Come, Maxie,” she softly beckoned after pinching his sleeve near the elbow. The two soon disappeared behind matte glass, just as sudden as they’d arrived, leaving the cursed thermos behind.

“You gonna press charges?” Alexander asked into nothing, gaze transfixed on shadows shifting across the shoji.

“Will you?” Jace fired back incredulously.

That caused a burst: “He’s my son!”

“And my nephew, so how about you chill the fuck out with the stupid questions, huh?”

“It’ll ware off tomorrow, most likely,” Magnus interrupted before their outraged heavy breathing – in tandem, how cute – could become a jabbing match. The words rushed hotly over his fingertips that kept swiping across his lower lip. “Two days, tops. Or I could remove it immediately, your choice.” He turned to Jonathan. The blonde’s hair was now all tousled, a halo of it making a crazy bid for space around his head. Vulnerability in Jace’s eyes pulled on the same bittersweet string of Magnus’s heart that Max’s crying did.

“Now, please.”

“Of course.”

“It’s just… I want to feel like myself again.”

“Completely understandable.”

“Scylla and Charybdis, that was awful!” Magnus groaned, when Alexander dragged him from the ICU into the now deserted infirmary. He desperately wanted to scrub his palms up and down his face, but makeup. “I hate scolding them.”

“I know. Still, we made a decision,” Alec quietly reminded, bending in a bit to put his hands on Magnus’s shoulders. “Scare them straight, remember? You’re doing it for his own good. And you’re doing it well.”

“So, how’s the punishment looking without the pressed charges? We will cover the ethics and morality courses again, start to finish, I insist.”

“And I insist on community services, standard amount of hours.”

“Sure. The usual too, of course.” Curfew, chores, no phone or internet, limited TV.

They hugged. Magnus, who felt worn down, immediately perked up. Just one more thing.

“The kiss did happen, by the way,” he whispered, a bit helpless.

Alec stared instead of answering. Hecate, Magnus loved him; loved him whole. From the polished tips of his dress shoes to the black wisps of eyelashes. “I had that dream once. Very confusing,” the man said finally with a wry smile.

“He asked. And he looked so scared, Alexander. I didn’t want him to feel alone.”

“Thank you. For being there for him.”

Relieved, Magnus sunk back into their embrace. A warm wide hand cupped his nape in a familiar, treasured gesture. Fingers caressed gently at an edge of his fade, right behind the ear. Shhhrk… shhhrk. It made him repeat hoarsely into Alec’s lapel: “He looked so scared.”

“Sounds to me like you got quite a fright yourself.”

“You said you couldn’t drink the potion because it was too sweet.” Unpeeling away to even the tiniest degree was hard, but Magnus managed.

“M-hm.”

The grin he felt stretching his lips was probably disgusting. Their faces so close together, smiling up into Alexander’s slightly cross-eyed admiration – favorite place to be. Alec’s cologne on its last leg, worn out through the night, succumbed under the notes of Magnus’s fresh unisex perfume. “That’s ‘cause you love me. How embarrassing for you.”

Alec sighed and gestured between them. “Literally, have been married for years.”

“You _like_ like me,” Magnus singsonged.

“No very much at the moment, no.” His husband wriggled away and made for Jace’s half of the room again, babbling over the shoulder: “Okay. I’ll go start on the preliminary lecture, so you’re not the sole bad guy in all this circus.” He popped his head in. “Glad you survived so I can kill you for kissing my husband!”

“Oh, shut up,” came a disembodied retort. “You’re never leaving this down, are you.”

“Nope. It’s gonna be in all my toasts from now till eternity.”

“Now I _wish_ I was dead.”

When Magnus approached the bed slowly and put his palm against Jace’s prickly cheek, his brother-in-law looked up in silence, eyes misty with impending loss. Mind-altering magic always proved malicious in the end, evil even, and this was its most atrocious effect – the realness. Perceived realness, sure, but in the moment the pain mattered just as much as anything objective.

It was done in a second. Magnus concentrated, sent a pulse of healing energy coursing towards the bright core of Nephilim being… and Jonathan was free.

“Magnus?” He tentatively called out, catching him already in the doorframe. “You know I _do_ love you, right?”

“I know,” Magnus answered with a warm smile. “I love you to, brother.”

***

There was a text message from Maryse waiting on his phone that evening.

_How much do you hate me at the moment?_

Magnus, baffled, gave a scoff to her imagined phantom. _Not even the slightest bit, and you know it._

_If that’s the case, could I ask for a favor?_

_Be a darling: elaborate._

In all honesty, the whole playing field of the situation at hand was a bit slanted, and not in Maryse’s favor. People liked her more compared to Robert and, therefore, expected more of her. She got all the heat as the result. If Bobby dearest made a speciesist remark, everyone were outraged… for a while. Then it died down. Because, what did you expect, amirite? Just Bobert being Bobert. But if same remark belonged to Maryse! It was like the end times with skies bleeding scarlet. No matter that she was just as much an alive human being on a learning curve as her ex-husband. How dare she?! She was supposed to be the one with empathy! With compassion and heart!

Magnus did not really like that very much. According to his personal silent observations, it was in large part the subconscious expectation for a woman to shoulder all emotional labor in any given conflict, and – nah. Just, nah.

So nowadays he often found himself a member of hashtag-Team-Maryse. To his great surprise. More thanks to cultivated moral principles and not interpersonal affection, of course, but still. The image of her, blade bloodied and hatred tangible around the shoulders, became worn in Magnus’s memory, sharp details blurred. 

_When I’m back in town, could you attend the lunch alongside Rafaela and Max to ensure their presence?_

_Depends. Would you request one Sodiq Silverwater for your entourage?_

_I guess younger men were always more to your taste_

_Maybe I should take my kids for a nice long holiday. Barbados sounds lovely_

_I’ll do it_

_Pleasure doing business_

***

Leaving room couch harbored Max, who sat in front of the TV with combs, squishies, and bottles scattered all over the cushions and coffee table. There was a wet cotton shirt wrapped around his head and a towel hanging from his neck. Ah, of course – Tuesday meant deep conditioning day.

Squinting at a nearby product, Magnus remarked: “That has castor in it.”

Max never tore his eyes away from the show that was on. “Ayah. Please.”

“I mean, I just-”

“It won’t get weighted down, it’s mild stuff, and I called Madzie, okay,” 4A, same as him, “she said it worked fine for her!”

“Okay-okay! I’m sorry. I respect your competence, you know that. Only wanted to provide a reminder. Just in case. Like last Wednesday, with the unicorn hoof. I completely forgot the first layer needs to be shaved off. I was grateful for the reminder. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Yeah. I get it. _All_ of it.” Max finally switched to watching his father stride closer, tense like an alert dog. “You play both good cop and bad cop, it’s confusing.”

“If you need any assistance with conditioner, I can help.”

“Thanks. That would be nice, I think. My hands are kinda killing me after detangling.”

“Want to do a twist-out after?”

“Three parts twists?”

“I was thinking two parts flat, but yours is better.”

“All right.”

Of course, Max had a professional barber in a proper shop they’ve agreed upon after a long trial and error process. But, when Max’s hair used to be shorter, Magnus had taught himself some simple things: how to shape the cut’s line up with a trimmer, how to curl it using a sponge. Right when he perfected the comb twists, Max decided he wanted to grow his hair out. He started to get older at the time, and strived for independence, going to his fathers less often. Still, Magnus managed to learn the correct way to finger-coil, and could now achieve a decent twist-out.

El taught him a lot about being a better parent, and of patience. He honed that particular skill with her help, and now could let Max Michael breathe. Magnus understood deeply the bigotry of human nature, and was often on the receiving end of it. Bigotry comorbid with fear was dangerous. He knew the toxicity with which society wielded “femininity” and “masculinity”. Often, he wanted to envelop El in the former, or his perception of its stereotypical form, like in a suit of armor. So she would be almost weaponized with performative feminine traits, and thus kept safe… er.

But he quickly learned how backwards that was. Space was needed in a parent-child relationship, almost as much as good communication. Speaking of.

For the opener, spoken while the rings came off, Magnus chose: “About the fight-”

“Here we go,” his son sighed. But he never scooted away, and passed the conditioner bottle over.

“Your father and I owe you an apology of our own,” Magnus continued, unwrapping the cotton carefully from Max’s hair. “If you had the questionable pleasure of witnessing our fight, you automatically gain the right to know of its resolution. Because even though you don’t have a say in our relationship, it affects you directly. I’m really sorry, Blueberry.”

He couldn’t see the boy’s face from where he stood behind the couch, but the defeated slope of those dear shoulders was very recognizable. “I know it’s stupid,” Max’s little voice proclaimed, “but I’m always afraid you guys will change your mind.”

Magnus squeezed the poor conditioner so hard, it positively exploded all over his palm. A subtle sweet cosmetic smell bloomed in the air. Good thing the process required copious amounts. Calmly, he asked: “About being your parents?”

“M-hm.”

“That’ll simply never happen, darling.” Of which they had reassured their son countless times. Countless and one, now.

In quick succession, Max rushed out a sniff and a hurried: “…even for, like, a chest of jewels and a bunch of ancient artifacts and bazillion dollars?”

“I would only want a bazillion dollars so I could spend it on you. And if you’re not there, what’s the point?”

They fell silent for a while, Schrödinger’s tears there but also not because no one saw anything. Magnus worked, concentrating on the ends, familiar task almost meditative. He remembered the days when this same head fit completely in a palm of one hand, when a soft fontanelle still pulsed atop it, under the thin dusting of hair. His son rotated it now: just so, to make the task easier. Things felt finally peaceful between them, the atmosphere settled and air clean _er_ , at least, if not completely clean. After the application was done, Magnus helped Max to put the shower cap on.

“Will uncle Jace ever forgive me, do you think?” 

It was rather fun to crinkle the plastic, so that’s what Magnus did to tease him for some time after wiping his hands clean. He hummed, pretending to contemplate the answer. “Why don’t you ask?” Leaning closer, he whispered: “Spoiler alert, he will.”

“I’m really ashamed, though… like, really-really ashamed,” Max confessed. He was so honest naturally, genuineness bursting out. The cutest. “I didn’t think about what I was doing too closely while I was doing it, because deep down I knew it was wrong. But now it’s all I can think about.”

“Concentrate on doing a great job at your community service,” mostly assisting with cleaning of the archives, “and soon there will be no place in your brain left.”

“Ayah.”

“Yes, my darling Blueberry?”

Max upturned his face and blinked his dark eyes, whites ever so slightly pink-hued at the corners. The all-encompassing weight of responsibility shivered across Magnus’s shoulders, reminding him of its eternal presence. It used to leave him breathless in the early days, but became rather grounding – a calm reminder – over the years. “Is it true what you said? That I don’t have to be something if I don’t want to?”

Don’t you dare do this to me, Magnus thought vehemently karma’s way. Out loud, he only said: “Absolutely.” (And held his breath.)

“I don’t think I want to be a warlock. Like, a full time warlock.” Getting progressively more worried by his father’s silence, the boy tried to fill it: “Obviously, I mean for work. I’m not that good at it, and I don’t really want to improve.” 

Well.

Well then.

Magnus blinked and sighed lightly, then smiled. To be fair: a, this wasn’t about him; b, he probably deserved it, anyway. It wasn’t a “I despise everything that you are and therefore wish to be nothing alike”, after all. It was more of a, “potions are very boring and end badly for me.” 

“If you don’t mind me asking, what _do_ you want to be?”

Tiny frown aside, Max appeared relieved. “I donno. I think… an architect?”

“Huh. That’ll present some problems once your buildings start crumbling with a single grey hair yet to appear in this lovely mane.” Magnus reached out to crinkle Max’s cap some more just for his hand to be batted away. “But I’m sure we can figure something out.”

***

The eatery Maryse chose had a lot of ceramic pots, moss in inappropriate places, and succulents stuffed _everywhere_ , cute glass terrariums or not. Waiters wore t-shirts with a minimal logo; there were un-lacquered wooden surfaces and pendants on iron chains aplenty. It embodied such a polar opposite of Maryse as a whole, it was hilarious. And she placed reservations on a whole party-sized table, too, when the popular location clearly served as a magnet for swept-to-the-sides locals.

Never an abstemious soul, the woman was nursing a cup of… something to ease the wait, and a tall colorful glass clearly awaited Magnus’s approval beside it. Also awaiting approval was Sodiq Silverwater with Invisibility rune bright across his neck, a leather-clad rigid statue behind Maryse’s right shoulder. He was always attentive on duty, according to Magnus’s observations, but every pore of the guy’s dark skin practically oozed extra professionalism at the moment. No matter that his ward could neutralize any threat before he would even blink.

Speaking of, Maryse looked stunningly overdressed in a mauve two-piece and, to an untrained eye, completely unperturbed as she sat there and observed a constant river of pedestrians pass by the shop window. Trueblood heirloom, the brooch, rested, bright, against her lapel alongside likewise shiny and relaxed waves of hair. Magnus could almost feel how rigid El became beside him, witnessing her Abuela’s marble-and-steel beauty.

“We can still leave,” he reminded.

“No way. Don’t you want to see her drink like, a hot lemongrass milk from enameled mug or something?”

“You build a strong case. Well, Max Michael, what are you waiting for?” Magnus prompted, pushing the boy ahead gently. “Go deliver your flowers!”

His son obeyed, joyful enough, and went to cross the space with a lush seasonal assortment in hand. It was largely pink, a cute contrast to the mint green getup he wore. Maryse’s eyes shot their way instantly. A pair of deep-red lips ticked up before parting to let out more joy with an open smile. “Darling! Look at you, all better!”

“Hi, Grandma!”

They hugged; she cooed over her bouquet while a server procured a vase for it. Sodiq was watching down the length of his nose like a hawk while Magnus pulled a chair out for El and helped her tack closer to the table.

“So!” Over-cheery Maryse made little warning bells go ting! in Magnus’s head. The way she clasped her hands in the front and practically bent over them towards her granddaughter was unsettling. “Would you say the location is to your taste? I thought you might like it.”

“Yes, Abuela, thank you. It’s cute,” El yielded easily, remembering her hurt feelings just a tad too late. “Or whatever.”

“Marvelous. If that’s settled, let us order.” Rustle of menu pages spread over the pause. Even Max, still off-kilter after everything, succumbed to the awkwardness more easily than usual. Maryse gave up first. “I hope red velvet is still your favorite. They’re famous for it here.”

When the moment came, El ordered a piece of Popcorn Unicorn novelty cake.

Max Michael’s hair taken care off, Magnus couldn’t get out of paying his sister the same courtesy – not that he wanted to. She succumbed to his ministrations so rarely. They chose a voluminous braided crown, slightly boho, with several loose curls falling free from it. The final look came together nicely, modest jewel-toned blouse echoing the waves and teasing the eye with a simple but playful asymmetrical ruffle sleeve. Magnus studied Raphaela, reminiscing idly on how alike she and Alec were in this unique ability: it could be hard to tell when one was “in” with them, but oh-so easy when one was out. Maryse send him a glance, sharing this observation.

Two bites in, she cleared her throat and pushed all tableware aside, arranging for a more business-like space and prompting Max to lift his plate in order to keep eating. El stopped annihilating the lumpy slab of yellow dough she got; her eyebrows arched in a learned expression. The fact that she hadn’t attempted to eat more gracefully in front of Sodiq served as a great illustration of deep distress. 

“I know my meaning matters little when the words inflicted hurt regardless of it,” Maryse started. “But I would still appreciate a chance to explain myself. All I wished to convey that night was my desire for Isabelle’s eyes to get passed down the line. They are lovely, and remind me strongly of my own mother. It would be such a joy for some lucky child to have them!” El hummed, but didn’t interrupt, while Max hung on every word, soaking “adult gossip” like a sponge. “Similarly, I always thought it would be wonderful to pass on Alexander’s sharp mind and big heart. And my wish came true; they live on. In you – his children. My grandchildren. Listen, Raphaela.” A neatly manicured hand flew above the plates and (mostly) picture-perfect cake slices to cover El’s, who did not as much as flinch. “I may have no say in Lightwood domain anymore, but I _am_ the head of Trueblood family. As such, it is my right and duty to pick a successor. And I always intended it to be you. Always. Would you accept this, please? Help me keep centuries-old tradition alive?”

Maryse turned her hand over, and there on her palm rested the Widow Brooch in all its prickly deadly glory. Magnus didn’t even notice the unpinning process. Neither did El, judging from the stunned stillness of her features. She flicked her eyes up to peer back and forth between Maryse’s.

“I know you’ve been trying,” El said, voice so tense it almost vibrated. “Try harder. Soon, you’ll become a grandparent all over again, and I want to leave a better version for future generations.”

Her chair scraped the floor with its legs when she jumped up. Laughter bubbled in Magnus’s chest from the synchronicity of Max and Maryse following the movement with their whole heads. El stormed away, kitty heals click-clacking, and her grandmother’s face fell, showing age. But as quickly as she ran, El came back to round their table and hug the woman clumsily, head to stomach. She did so in silence. Having messed Maryse’s hair up beyond all hope, she let go, snatched the brooch, and left again. Everyone present watched her storm out and stomp down the street where she plopped on the curb and hugged her knees to herself, face-planting into her cigarette trousers.

Sodiq went after her without paying any mind to the post he was effectively abandoning. Waiters scattered out of the way. The pair stayed outside talking, from the looks of it, and petting a nearby potted fern. Stealing green-striped glances through the leaves, no doubt. It would be an appropriate moment to congratulate oneself on one’s successful Machiavellian scheming, if one wouldn’t mind stooping low to behave in such a bad taste.

“Oh,” Maryse only said.

“P-Q-R-S-T,” Max readily added and stabbed a frosting-crusted dessert fork into his treat. 

Magnus found himself gently patting the woman’s hand in consolation. “And you thought.”

Even if everything was progressing according to plan so far, Magnus had to take responsibility. He excused himself and, dodging a macramé-ed _Haworthia cooperi_ -filled pendulum (excellent for mermaid enticement), ventured outside where greyish clouds started gathering. His presence worked as an industrial-grade boyfriend repellant slash hard awakening. As Sodiq slipped away, Magnus bravely sacrificed vanity at the altar of paternal duty and, pinching above the knees, landed his Yohji Yamamoto pants on the curb beside El. She allowed a shoulder bump to disturb her stillness. They sat, observing strangers glide to destinations unknown, in united silence but separate thoughts. The crowd from this height presented a universally homogenous jean-clad down half with bright spots of purple – it fall-winter color. 

“Your father,” Magnus said after a particularly disturbing pair of sweats floated by, “once told me I was _not like other warlocks_. You know. Being honest, brave, loyal that is.”

The hurt long since faded, sharp edges smoothed over by the hand of time. Now, Magnus mostly found it funny – what a disastrous dumbass Alexander had been in his younger days! Blackmail material as far as the mind could reach.

“Nothing to do with parentage, I’m sure,” El grumbled. She kept bumping her thumb knuckle on her knee. Tap-tap-tap.

“Just food for thought.”

“And what, did you forgive him?”

“No. Haven’t spoken a word to the man since. Made the baby making process very awkward, let me tell you.”

The following eyeroll was almost audible: “A regular comedian, you should quit your practice for the stage.”

“Been there, done that. In 1834-”

“Of course, silly me.”

“But unfortunately for the public, I just love magic too much. I’ll never give it up if I can help it.”

“Then you will understand me.” El drew a deep breath, inhaling a soft vanilla smell the eatery leaked. “I always wanted to be a Shadowhunter. I don’t remember much from- you know. Pretty sure my memory starts in that alley where Dad found me. It was pure terror, but then his silhouette shielded the light… and the monsters were eliminated. Just like that.” She snapped her long fingers. One of the phalanxes was crossed by an old scar, healed to a silvery band. “I felt safe. For the first time in weeks. It felt like first time in forever, really. And I just remember thinking, this is what I wanna do. What I wanna be.” The words sounded hot with emotion, almost incandescent from the truth at their core. An equally burning lump climbed up Magnus’s throat. His daughter turned to him, dark eyes glistening. “I’ll stay a Shadowhunter, Ayah. Si muero, ¿por favor no me odies?”

He was so grateful for the usual glamour that aged his visage – no one stared, weirded out by paternal behavior of one twenty-something towards another. He carefully kissed his daughter’s temple and hugged her shoulders. “Nunca.”

“Alright,” she grumbled. “Help me pin the family glory to my person, I guess.”

“Yes, Miss Trueblood. As you wish.”

The mechanism, just like everything else about the accessory, tried to fight back and bite at Magnus’s fingers with an electrum clasp, but he managed to wrestle the thing into obedience. Once it found its place as counterbalance to the ruffle, a raindrop landed on the polished surface – like a tear; like anointing.

“So… Rick, like, really doesn’t hate me, huh?”

Magnus carefully didn’t sigh. “No, kid. He _really_ doesn’t.”

***

To collective amused horror, Clarissa arrived in a topless jeep convertible crawling at a modest speed of a barely alive recruit. No paucity of those: their bodies, bulky with heavy gear, littered the road behind the vehicle in an exhausted quarter-mile stretch. All till the very last one were drenched in sweat, as well as heaving and wordless with it. Their tormentor sipped a green smoothie and embodied revitalization like no other. Streetlamps reflected off the sparkly dress she donned and sent tiny flickers everywhere. 

“Good job, guys,” she declared to a chorus of groans as Jace helped her climb down. “Get some rest. Patrol tomorrow as usual.”

“Worked, I see.” Even Alexander came to check the show out, temporarily abandoning his stealth mission. For the past half-hour he’d been busy trying to hide the identical flower arrangements bought for Magnus and Izzy, two wine-red teddy bears constructed entirely from roses. Both future recipients peeked the transparent plastic boxes already, but neither said anything – Alec’s resolve to do right by them, properly, was sweet.

“I followed my brave leader straight to success,” Clary said. “What’s this lukewarm welcome, where’s the love? Not even a kiss for your secret flame?”

Jace to the right of her, with an elbow outstretched “I’m-wearing-heels-you’re-wearing-me” style, sent Magnus a long-suffering look. “I really do wish I was dead.”

“Nonsense, darling. Clarissa, you’re a vision.”

“Yourself, too!”

He nodded and smiled, taking the complement. Isabelle just finished adjusting his waterproof eyeliner, so perfection practically radiated from his skin alongside the soft champagne highlighter glow. Giddiness floated on the crisp night air, adding to the light mood. Colorful sparks itched at Magnus’s fingertips and begged to be released, but he suppressed the desire – they were to be saved for the afterparty.

“Fair warning,” he said, “Maryse is coming after all.”

Clary shrugged. “Awesome. You know I don’t care as much. I mean, she’s there… but she’s not really _family_ , not the way Jace is. So. Whatever. I was more worried about the recruits.”

The limping plume behind her shuffled on into darkness.

“You’re handling it well,” Alexander praised again.

“All right, we better get in. It’s starting soon.”

Backstage, Isabelle was finishing some very impressive stretches in a sleek sequined mini dress. Her girlish figure and bright eyes attracted not a small amount of attention from the crowd, even busy with their own preparations as other dancers were. Magnus came over and took her familiar and studied, narrow and callused hand. Together they maneuvered through cacophony of human voices and ambient track put on for the waiting public, stepping over cables and random debris. 

In a curtain slit the auditorium still shone, lights on for the time being. Behind the small orchestra pit they could see their family in the second parterre row: Simon with camera on the ready, Clary cleaning the lens with soft microfiber; Maryse and Max squeezing the opposite ends of his giant jalapeño squishy; Jace and Alec talking, foreheads close; El and Sodiq desperately trying to convince the whole world that “it’s not a date”. Robert appeared at the doors just as artificial twilight began falling over the gathering.

“Ready to rock?” Isabelle asked mischievously.

“My sweet,” Magnus winked, “I was born ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is finished! 
> 
> Thanks a bunch for sticking it out with yours truly, gals, guys, and pals! <3 I really appreciate it. Had a lot of fun writing this, even though the story might be weird overall. Much love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my story! Hope you decide to stick around.
> 
>  
> 
> [ **Fanart blog.** ](http://bravekate.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: English is not my first language.
> 
> XOXO


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